THE  HISTORY 
OF  MR.  POLLY 


BY 

H.  G*  WELLS 


AUTHOR  OF 
TONO-BUNGAY.  ETC..  ETC. 


GROSSET    &  DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS        ::        NEW    YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1909 
BY  DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 


Stack 
Annex 


CHJJPTEB  PAGE 

I  BEGINNINGS,  AND  THE  BAZAAR     .-    ,«  «  m  3 

II  DISMISSAL   OF   PARSONS     .     ....,:.,  -.«  33 

III  CRIBS   ,„  .„    ...     .     .     .     .     ,     ..-.    :«  .  :.,  49 

IV  MR.  POLLY  AN  ORPHAN     .     :.     .«    .-  •.  i«  65 
V  MR.  POLLY  TAKES  A  VACATION    mm***  97 

VI  MIRIAM    ....    „    ;.,    „    „    ...    ...    ,.,     .  :.  .  127 

VII  THE  LITTLE  SHOP  AT  FISHBOURNE    „  «  .  173 

VIII  MAKING  AN  END  TO  THINGS     .     ,.,  .  .  211 

IX  THE   POTWELL    INN     .     .     .     ,„    »  :..  >  243 

X  MIRIAM  REVISITED  ..    :,;    ..:    „    ;«,    :.,  M  :.,  303 


.. 


The  History  of  Mr.  Polly 

CHAPTER   THE  FIRST 

BEGINNINGS,  AND  THE  BAZAAR 
I 

"TT  TTOLE!"    said    Mr.    Polly,    and    then    for    a 

1       1     change,    and    with     greatly    increased    em- 

JL    JL   phasis :    "  Ole !  "    He  paused,  and  then  broke 

out  with  one  of  his  private  and  peculiar  idioms.    "  Oh ! 

Beastly  Silly  Wheeze  of  a  Hole ! " 

He  was  sitting  on  a  stile  between  two  threadbare  look- 
ing fields,  and  suffering  acutely  from  indigestion. 

He  suffered  from  indigestion  now  nearly  every  after- 
noon in  his  life,  but  as  he  lacked  introspection  he  pro- 
jected the  associated  discomfort  upon  the  world.  Every 
afternoon  he  discovered  afresh  that  life  as  a  whole  and 
every  aspect  of  life  that  presented  itself  was  "  beastly." 
And  this  afternoon,  lured  by  the  delusive  blueness  of  a 
sky  that  was  blue  because  the  wind  was  in  the  east,  he 
had  come  out  in  the  hope  of  snatching  something  of  the 
joyousness  of  spring.  The  mysterious  alchemy  of  mind 
and  body  refused,  however,  to  permit  any  joyousness 
whatever  in  the  spring. 


4  THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

He  had  had  a  little  difficulty  in  finding  his  cap  before 
he  came  out.  He  wanted  his  cap — the  new  golf  cap — 
and  Mrs.  Polly  must  needs  fish  out  his  old  soft  brown  felt 
hat.  "  'Ere's  your  'at,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  insincere  en- 
couragement. 

He  had  been  routing  among  the  piled  newspapers  under 
the  kitchen  dresser,  and  had  turned  quite  hopefully  and 
taken  the  thing.  He  put  it  on.  But  it  didn't  feel  right. 
Nothing  felt  right.  He  put  a  trembling  hand  upon  the 
crown  of  the  thing  and  pressed  it  on  his  head,  and  tried  it 
askew  to  the  right  and  then  askew  to  the  left. 

Then  the  full  sense  of  the  indignity  offered  him  came 
home  to  him.  The  hat  masked  the  upper  sinister  quarter 
of  his  face,  and  he  spoke  with  a  wrathful  eye  regarding 
his  wife  from  under  the  brim.  In  a  voice  thick  with  fury 
he  said :  "  I  s'pose  you'd  like  me  to  wear  that  silly  Mud 
Pie  for  ever,  eh?  I  tell  you  I  won't.  I'm  sick  of  it.  I'm 
pretty  near  sick  of  everything,  comes  to  that.  .  .  . 
Hat!" 

He  clutched  it  with  quivering  fingers.  "  Hat ! "  he 
repeated.  Then  he  flung  it  to  the  ground,  and  kicked  it 
with  extraordinary  fury  across  the  kitchen.  It  flew  up 
against  the  door  and  dropped  to  the  ground  with  its  rib- 
bon band  half  off. 

"  Shan't  go  out ! "  he  said,  and  sticking  his  hands  into 
his  jacket  pockets  discovered  the  missing  cap  in  the  right 
one. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  straight  upstairs 
without  a  word,  and  out,  slamming  the  shop  door  hard. 


BEGINNINGS,  'AND   THE  BAZAAR          5 

"  Beauty ! "  said  Mrs.  Polly  at  last  to  a  tremendous 
silence,  picking  up  and  dusting  the  rejected  headdress. 
"Tantrums,"  she  added.  "I  'aven't  patience."  And 
moving  with  the  slow  reluctance  of  a  deeply  offended 
woman,  she  began  to  pile  together  the  simple  apparatus 
of  their  recent  meal,  for  transportation  to  the  scullery 
sink. 

The  repast  she  had  prepared  for  him  did  not  seem  to 
her  to  justify  his  ingratitude.  There  had  been  the  cold 
pork  from  Sunday  and  some  nice  cold  potatoes,  and 
Rashdall's  Mixed  Pickles,  of  which  he  was  inordinately 
fond.  He  had  eaten  three  gherkins,  two  onions,  a  small 
cauliflower  head  and  several  capers  with  every  appear- 
ance of  appetite,  and  indeed  with  avidity;  and  then  there 
had  been  cold  suet  pudding  to  follow,  with  treacle,  and 
then  a  nice  bit  of  cheese.  It  was  the  pale,  hard  sort  of 
cheese  he  liked ;  red  cheese  he  declared  was  indigestible. 
He  had  also  had  three  big  slices  of  greyish  baker's  bread, 
and  had  drunk  the  best  part  of  the  jugful  of  beer.  .  .  . 
But  there  seems  to  be  no  pleasing  some  people. 

"  Tantrums.! "  said  Mrs.  Polly  at  the  sink,  struggling 
with  the  mustard  on  his  plate  and  expressing  the  only 
solution  of  the  problem  that  occurred  to  her. 

And  Mr.  Polly  sat  on  the  stile  and  hated  the  whole 
scheme  of  life — which  was  at  once  excessive  and  inade- 
quate as  a  solution.  He  hated  Foxbourne,  he  hated  Fox- 
bourne  High  Street,  he  hated  his  shop  and  his  wife  and 
his  neighbours — every  blessed  neighbour — and  with  in- 
describable bitterness  he  hated  himself. 


6  THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

"  Why  did  I  ever  get  in  this  silly  Hole  ? "  he  said. 
"Why  did  I  ever?" 

He  sat  on  the  stile,  and  looked  with  eyes  that  seemed 
blurred  with  impalpable  flaws  at  a  world  in  which  even 
the  spring  buds  were  wilted,  the  sunlight  metallic  and 
the  shadows  mixed  with  blue-black  ink. 

To  the  moralist  I  know  he  might  have  served  as  a  fig- 
ure of  sinful  discontent,  but  that  is  because  it  is  the  habit 
of  moralists  to  ignore  material  circumstances, — if  indeed 
one  may  speak  of  a  recent  meal  as  a  circumstance, — 
with  Mr.  Polly  circum.  Drink,  indeed,  our  teachers  will 
criticise  nowadays  both  as  regards  quantity  and  quality, 
but  neither  church  nor  state  nor  school  will  raise  a  warn- 
ing finger  between  a  man  and  his  hunger  and  his  wife's 
catering.  So  on  nearly  every  day  in  his  life  Mr.  Polly  fell 
into  a  violent  rage  and  hatred  against  the  outer  world  in 
the  afternoon,  and  never  suspected  that  it  was  this  inner 
world  to  which  I  am  with  such  masterly  delicacy  allud- 
ing, that  was  thus  reflecting  its  sinister  disorder  upon  the 
things  without.  It  is  a  pity  that  some  human  beings  are 
not  more  transparent.  If  Mr.  Polly,  for  example,  had 
been  transparent  or  even  passably  translucent,  then  per- 
haps he  might  have  realised  from  the  Laocoon  struggle 
he  would  have  glimpsed,  that  indeed  he  was  not  so  much 
a  human  being  as  a  civil  war. 

Wonderful  things  must  have  been  going  on  inside  Mr. 
Polly.  Oh !  wonderful  things.  It  must  have  been  like  a 
badly  managed  industrial  city  during  a  period  of  depres- 
sion ;  agitators,  acts  of  violence,  strikes,  the  forces  of  law 


BEGINNINGS,   AND    THE   BAZAAR          7 

and  order  doing  their  best,  rushings  to  and  fro,  up- 
heavals, the  Marseillaise,  tumbrils,  the  rumble  and  the 
thunder  of  the  tumbrils.  .  .  . 

I  do  not  know  why  the  east  win-d  aggravates  life  to 
unhealthy  people.  It  made  Mr.  Polly's  teeth  seem  loose  in 
his  head,  and  his  skin  feel  like  a  misfit,  and  his  hair  a  dry, 
stringy  exasperation.  .  .  . 

Why  cannot  doctors  give  us  an  antidote  to  the  east 
wind  ? 

"  Never  have  the  sense  to  get  your  hair  cut  till  it's  too 
long,"  said  Mr.  Polly  catching  sight  of  his  shadow,  "  you 
blighted,  degenerated  Paintbrush !  Ugh !  "  and  he  flat- 
tened down  the  projecting  tails  with  an  urgent  hand. 

II 

Mr.  Polly's  age  was  exactly  thirty-five  years  and  a 
half.  He  was  a  short,  compact  figure,  and  a  little  inclined 
to  a  localised  embonpoint.  His  face  was  not  unpleasing ; 
the  features  fine,  but  a  trifle  too  pointed  about  the  nose  to 
be  classically  perfect.  The  corners  of  his  sensitive  mouth 
were  depressed.  His  eyes  were  ruddy  brown  and  trou- 
bled, and  the  left  one  was  round  with  more  of  wonder  in 
it  than  its  fellow.  His  complexion  was  dull  and  yellow- 
ish. That,  as  I  have  explained,  on  account  of  those  civil 
disturbances.  He  was,  in  the  technical  sense  of  the  word, 
clean  shaved,  with  a  small  sallow  patch  under  the  right 
ear  and  a  cut  on  the  chin.  His  brow  had  the  little  puck- 
erings  of  a  thoroughly  discontented  man,  little  wrinklings 


8  THE   HISTORY   OF   MR.   POLLY. 

and  lumps,  particularly  over  his  right  eye,  and  he  sat  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  a  little  askew  on  the  stile  and 
swung  one  leg. 

"  Hole !  "  he  repeated  presently. 

He  broke  into  a  quavering  song.  "  Ro-o-o-tten 
Be-e-astly  Silly  Hole!" 

His  voice  thickened  with  rage,  and  the  rest  of  his  dis~ 
course  was  marred  by  an  unfortunate  choice  of  epithets. 

He  was  dressed  in  a  shabby  black  morning  coat  and 
vest;  the  braid  that  bound  these  garments  was  a  little 
loose  in  places;  his  collar  was  chosen  from  stock  and 
with  projecting  corners,  technically  a  "  wing-poke";  that 
and  his  tie,  which  was  new  and  loose  and  rich  in  colour- 
ing, had  been  selected  to  encourage  and  stimulate  cus- 
tomers— for  he  dealt  in  gentlemen's  outfitting.  His  golf 
cap,  which  was  also  from  stock  and  aslant  over  his  eye, 
gave  his  misery  a  desperate  touch.  He  wore  brown 
leather  boots — because  he  hated  the  smell  of  blacking. 

Perhaps  after  all  it  was  not  simply  indigestion  that 
troubled  him. 

Behind  the  superficialities  of  Mr.  Polly's  being,  moved 
a  larger  and  vaguer  distress.  The  elementary  education 
he  had  acquired  had  left  him  with  the  impression  that 
arithmetic  was  a  fluky  science  and  best  avoided  in  prac- 
tical affairs,  but  even  the  absence  of  book-keeping  and  a 
total  inability  to  distinguish  between  capital  and  interest 
could  not  blind  him  for  ever  to  the  fact  that  the  little 
shop  in  the  High  Street  was  not  paying.  An  absence  of 
returns,  a  constriction  of  credit,  a  depleted  till,  the  most 


BEGINNINGS,   'AND    THE   BAZAAR          9 

valiant  resolves  to  keep  smiling,  could  not  prevail  for  ever 
against  these  insistent  phenomena.  One  might  bustle 
about  in  the  morning  before  dinner,  and  in  the  afternoon 
after  tea  and  forget  that  huge  dark  cloud  of  insolvency 
that  gathered  and  spread  in  the  background,  but  it  was 
part  of  the  desolation  of  these  afternoon  periods,  these 
grey  spaces  of  time  after  meals,  when  all  one's  courage 
had  descended  to  the  unseen  battles  of  the  pit,  that  life 
seemed  stripped  to  the  bone  and  one  saw  with  a  hopeless 
clearness. 

Let  me  tell  the  history  of  Mr.  Polly  from  the  cradle  to 
these  present  difficulties. 

"  First  the  infant,  mewling  and  puking  in  its  nurse's  arms." 

There  had  been  a  time  when  two  people  had  thought 
Mr.  Polly  the  most  wonderful  and  adorable  thing  in  the 
world,  had  kissed  his  toe-nails,  saying  "  myum,  myum," 
and  marvelled  at  the  exquisite  softness  and  delicacy  of 
his  hair,  had  called  to  one  another  to  remark  the  peculiar 
distinction  with  which  he  bubbled,  had  disputed  whether 
the  sound  he  had  made  was  just  da  da,  or  truly  and  inten- 
tionally dadda,  had  washed  him  in  the  utmost  detail,  and 
wrapped  him  up  in  soft,  warm  blankets,  and  smothered 
him  with  kisses.  A  regal  time  that  was,  and  four  and 
thirty  years  ago ;  and  a  merciful  forgetfulness  barred  Mr. 
Polly  from  ever  bringing  its  careless  luxury,  its  auto- 
cratic demands  and  instant  obedience,  into  contrast  with 
his  present  condition  of  life.  These  two  people  had 


10  THE   HISTORY   OF   MR.   POLLY 

worshipped  him  from  the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  soles 
of  his  exquisite  feet.  And  also  they  had  fed  him  rather 
unwisely,  for  no  one  had  ever  troubled  to  teach  his  mother 
anything  about  the  mysteries  of  a  child's  upbringing — • 
though  of  course  the  monthly  nurse  and  her  charwoman 
gave  some  valuable  hints — and  by  his  fifth  birthday  the 
perfect  rhythms  of  his  nice  new  interior  were  already 
darkened  with  perplexity.  .  .  . 

His  mother  died  when  he  was  seven. 

He  began  only  to  have  distinctive  memories  of  himself 
in  the  time  when  his  education  had  already  begun. 

I  remember  seeing  a  picture  of  Education — in  some 
place.  I  think  it  was  Education,  but  quite  conceivably  it 
represented  the  Empire  teaching  her  Sons,  and  I  have  a 
strong  impression  that  it  was  a  wall  painting  upon  some 
public  building  in  Manchester  or  Birmingham  or  Glas- 
gow, but  very  possibly  I  am  mistaken  about  that.  It 
represented  a  glorious  woman  with  a  wise  and  fearless 
face  stooping  over  her  children  and  pointing  them  to  far 
horizons.  The  sky  displayed  the  pearly  warmth  of  a 
summer  dawn,  and  all  the  painting  was  marvellously 
bright  as  if  with  the  youth  and  hope  of  the  delicately 
beautiful  children  in  the  foreground.  She  was  telling 
them,  one  felt,  of  the  great  prospect  of  life  that  opened 
before  them,  of  the  spectacle  of  the  world,  the  splendours 
of  sea  and  mountain  they  might  travel  and  see,  the  joys 
of  skill  they  might  acquire,  of  effort  and  the  pride  of 
effort  and  the  devotions  and  nobilities  it  was  theirs  to 
achieve.  Perhaps  even  she  whispered  of  the  warm 


BEGINNINGS,  AND    THE   BAZAAR         n 

triumphant  mystery  of  love  that  comes  at  last  to  those 
who  have  patience  and  unblemished  hearts.  .  .  .  She 
was  reminding  them  of  their  great  heritage  as  English 
children,  rulers  of  more  than  one-fifth  of  mankind,  of  the 
obligation  to  do  and  be  the  best  that  such  a  pride  of 
empire  entails,  of  their  essential  nobility  and  knighthood 
and  the  restraints  and  the  charities  and  the  disciplined 
strength  that  is  becoming  in  knights  and  rulers.  .  .  . 
The  education  of  Mr.  Polly  did  not  follow  this  picture 
very  closely.  He  went  for  some  time  to  a  National 
School,  which  was  run  on  severely  economical  lines  to 
keep  down  the  rates  by  a  largely  untrained  staff,  he  was 
set  sums  to  do  that  he  did  not  understand,  and  that  no 
one  made  him  understand,  he  was  made  to  read  the 
catechism  and  Bible  with  the  utmost  industry  and  an  en- 
tire disregard  of  punctuation  or  significance,  and  caused 
to  imitate  writing  copies  and  drawing  copies,  and  given 
object  lessons  upon  sealing  wax  and  silk- worms  and  po- 
tato bugs  and  ginger  and  iron  and  such  like  things,  and 
taught  various  other  subjects  his  mind  refused  to  enter- 
tain, and  afterwards,  when  he  was  about  twelve,  he  was 
jerked  by  his  parent  to  "  finish  off  "  in  a  private  school 
of  dingy  aspect  and  still  dingier  pretensions,  where  there 
were  no  object  lessons,  and  the  studies  of  book-keeping 
and  French  were  pursued  (but  never  effectually  over- 
taken) under  the  guidance  of  an  elderly  gentleman  who 
wore  a  nondescript  gown  and  took  snuff,  wrote  copper- 
plate, explained  nothing,  and  used  a  cane  with  remarkable 
dexterity  and  gusto. 


12  THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

Mr.  Polly  went  into  the  National  School  at  six  and  he 
left  the  private  school  at  fourteen,  and  by  that  time  his 
mind  was  in  much  the  same  state  that  you  would  be  in, 
dear  reader,  if  you  were  operated  upon  for  appendicitis 
by  a  well-meaning,  boldly  enterprising,  but  rather  over- 
worked and  under-paid  butcher  boy,  who  was  superseded 
towards  the  climax  of  the  operation  by  a  left-handed  clerk 
of  high  principles  but  intemperate  habits, — that  is  to  say, 
it  was  in  a  thorough  mess.  The  nice  little  curiosities  and 
willingnesses  of  a  child  were  in  a  jumbled  and  thwarted 
condition,  hacked  and  cut  about — the  operators  had  left, 
so  to  speak,  all  their  sponges  and  ligatures  in  the  mangled 
confusion — and  Mr.  Polly  had  lost  much  of  his  natural 
confidence,  so  far  as  figures  and  sciences  and  languages 
and  the  possibilities  of  learning  things  were  concerned. 
He  thought  of  the  present  world  no  longer  as  a  wonder- 
land of  experiences,  but  as  geography  and  history,  as  the 
repeating  of  names  that  were  hard  to  pronounce,  and 
lists  of  products  and  populations  and  heights  and  lengths, 
and  as  lists  and  dates — oh!  and  boredom  indescribable. 
He  thought  of  religion  as  the  recital  of  more  or  less  in- 
comprehensible words  that  were  hard  to  remember,  and 
of  the  Divinity  as  of  a  limitless  Being  having  the  nature 
of  a  schoolmaster  and  making  infinite  rules,  known  and 
unknown  rules,  that  were  always  ruthlessly  enforced,  and 
with  an  infinite  capacity  for  punishment  and,  most  hor- 
rible of  all  to  think  of!  limitless  powers  of  espial.  (So 
to  the  best  of  his  ability  he  did  not  think  of  that  unrelent- 
ing eye.)  He  was  uncertain  about  the  spelling  and  pro- 


BEGINNINGS,  "AND   THE  BAZAAR        13 

nunciation  of  most  of  the  words  in  our  beautiful  but 
abundant  and  perplexing  tongue, — that  especially  was  a 
pity  because  words  attracted  him,  and  under  happier  con- 
ditions he  might  have  used  them  well — he  was  always 
doubtful  whether  it  was  eight  sevens  or  nine  eights  that 
was  sixty-three — (he  knew  no  method  for  settling  the 
difficulty)  and  he  thought  the  merit  of  a  drawing  con- 
sisted in  the  care  with  which  it  was  "  lined  in."  "  Lining 
in  "  bored  him  beyond  measure. 

But  the  indigestions  of  mind  and  body  that  were  to 
play  so  large  a  part  in  his  subsequent  career  were  still 
only  beginning.  His  liver  and  his  gastric  juice,  his  won- 
ider  and  imagination  kept  up  a  fight  against  the  things 
that  threatened  to  overwhelm  soul  and  body  together. 
Outside  the  regions  devastated  by  the  school  curriculum 
he  was  still  intensely  curious.  He  had  cheerful  phases 
of  enterprise,  and  about  thirteen  he  suddenly  discovered 
reading  and  its  joys.  He  began  to  read  stories  vora- 
ciously, and  books  of  travel,  provided  they  were  also 
adventurous.  He  got  these  chiefly  from  the  local  insti- 
tute, and  he  also  "  took  in,"  irregularly  but  thoroughly, 
one  of  those  inspiring  weeklies  that  dull  people  used  to 
call  "  penny  dreadfuls,"  admirable  weeklies  crammed  with 
imagination  that  the  cheap  boys'  "  comics "  of  to-day 
have  replaced.  At  fourteen,  when  he  emerged  from  the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  education,  there  survived  some- 
thing, indeed  it  survived  still,  obscured  and  thwarted, 
at  five  and  thirty,  that  pointed — not  with  a  visible  and 
prevailing  finger  like  the  finger  of  that  beautiful  woman 


14  THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

in  the  picture,  but  pointed  nevertheless — to  the  idea  that 
there  was  interest  and  happiness  in  the  world.  Deep  in 
the  being  of  Mr.  Polly,  deep  in  that  darkness,  like  a 
creature  which  has  been  beaten  about  the  head  and  left 
for  dead  but  still  lives,  crawled  a  persuasion  that  over 
and  above  the  things  that  are  jolly  and  "  bits  of  all  right," 
there  was  beauty,  there  was  delight,  that  somewhere — 
magically  inaccessible  perhaps,  but  still  somewhere,  were 
pure  and  easy  and  joyous  states  of  body  and  mind. 

He  would  sneak  out  on  moonless  winter  nights  and 
stare  up  at  the  stars,  and  afterwards  find  it  difficult  to 
tell  his  father  where  he  had  been. 

He  would  read  tales  about  hunters  and  explorers,  and 
imagine  himself  riding  mustangs  as  fleet  as  the  wind 
across  the  prairies  of  Western  America,  or  coming  as  a 
conquering  and  adored  white  man  into  the  swarming 
villages  of  Central  Africa.  He  shot  bears  with  a  revolver 
— a  cigarette  in  the  other  hand — and  made  a  necklace  of 
their  teeth  and  claws  for  the  chief's  beautiful  young 
daughter.  Also  he  killed  a  lion  with  a  pointed  stake, 
stabbing  through  the  beast's  heart  as  it  stood  over  him. 

He  thought  it  would  be  splendid  to  be  a  diver  and  go 
down  into  the  dark  green  mysteries  of  the  sea. 

He  led  stormers  against  well-nigh  impregnable  forts, 
and  died  on  the  ramparts  at  the  moment  of  victory. 
(His  grave  was  watered  by  a  nation's  tears.) 

He  rammed  and  torpedoed  ships,  one  against  ten. 

He  was  beloved  by  queens  in  barbaric  lands,  and  recon- 
ciled whole  nations  to  the  Christian  faith. 


BEGINNINGS,   AND    THE   BAZAAR         15 

He  was  martyred,  and  took  it  very  calmly  and  beauti- 
fully— but  only  once  or  twice  after  the  Revivalist  week. 
It  did  not  become  a  habit  with  him. 

He  explored  the  Amazon,  and  found,  newly  exposed 
by  the  fall  of  a  great  tree,  a  rock  of  gold. 

Engaged  in  these  pursuits  he  would  neglect  the  work 
immediately  in  hand,  sitting  somewhat  slackly  on  the 
form  and  projecting  himself  in  a  manner  tempting  to  a 
schoolmaster  with  a  cane.  .  .  .  And  twice  he  had 
books  confiscated. 

Recalled  to  the  realities  of  life,  he  would  rub  himself 
or  sigh  deeply  as  the  occasion  required,  and  resume  his 
attempts  to  write  as  good  as  copperplate.  He  hated 
writing ;  the  ink  always  crept  up  his  fingers  and  the  smell 
of  ink  offended  him.  And  he  was  filled  with  unexpressed 
doubts.  Why  should  writing  slope  down  from  right  to 
left?  Why  should  downstrokes  be  thick  and  upstrokes 
thin?  Why  should  the  handle  of  one's  pen  point  over 
one's  right  shoulder? 

His  copy  books  towards  the  end  foreshadowed  his 
destiny  and  took  the  form  of  commercial  documents. 
"Dear  Sir,"  they  ran,  "Referring  to  your  esteemed 
order  of  the  26th  ult.,  we  beg  to  inform  you"  and 
so  on. 

The  compression  of  Mr.  Polly's  mind  and  soul  in  the 
educational  institutions  of  his  time,  was  terminated  ab- 
ruptly by  his  father  between  his  fourteenth  and  fifteenth 
birthday.  His  father — who  had  long  since  forgotten  the 
time  when  his  son's  little  limbs  seemed  to  have  come 


16  THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

straight  from  God's  hand,  and  when  he  had  kissed  five 
minute  toe-nails  in  a  rapture  of  loving  tenderness — 
remarked : 

"  It's  time  that  dratted  boy  did  something  for  a  living." 

And  a  month  or  so  later  Mr.  Polly  began  that  career  in 

business  that  led  him  at  last  to  the  sole  proprietorship  of 

a  bankrupt  outfitter's  shop — and  to  the  stile  on  which 

he  was  sitting. 

Ill 

Mr,  Polly  was  not  naturally  interested  in  hosiery  and 
gentlemen's  outfitting.  At  times,  indeed,  he  urged  him- 
self to  a  spurious  curiosity  about  that  trade,  but  presently 
something  more  congenial  came  along  and  checked  the 
effort.  He  was  apprenticed  in  one  of  those  large,  rather 
low-class  establishments  which  sell  everything,  from 
pianos  and  furniture  to  books  and  millinery,  a  department 
store  in  fact,  The  Port  Burdock  Drapery  Bazaar  at  Port 
Burdock,  one  of  the  three  townships  that  are  grouped 
around  the  Port  Burdock  naval  dockyards.  There  he  re- 
mained six  years.  He  spent  most  of  the  time  inattentive 
to  business,  in  a  sort  of  uncomfortable  happiness,  increas- 
ing his  indigestion. 

On  the  whole  he  preferred  business  to  school ;  the  hours 
were  longer  but  the  tension  was  not  nearly  so  great. 
The  place  was  better  aired,  you  were  not  kept  in  for  no 
reason  at  all,  and  the  cane  was  not  employed.  You 
watched  the  growth  of  your  moustache  with  interest  and 
impatience,  and  mastered  the  beginnings  of  social  inter- 


BEGINNINGS,   AND    THE   BAZAAR         17 

course.  You  talked,  and  found  there  were  things  amus- 
ing to  say.  Also  you  had  regular  pocket  money,  and  a 
voice  in  the  purchase  of  your  clothes,  and  presently  a 
small  salary.  And  there  were  girls.  And  friendship! 
In  the  retrospect  Port  Burdock  sparkled  with  the  facets 
of  quite  a  cluster  of  remembered  jolly  times. 

("Didn't  save  much  money  though,"  said  Mr.  Polly.) 
The  first  apprentices'  dormitory  was  a  long  bleak  room 
with  six  beds,  six  chests  of  drawers  and  looking  glasses 
and  a  number  of  boxes  of  wood  or  tin ;  it  opened  into  a 
still  longer  and  bleaker  room  of  eight  beds,  and  this  into 
a  third  apartment  with  yellow  grained  paper  and  Ameri- 
can cloth  tables,  which  was  the  dining-room  by  day  and 
the  men's  sitting-  and  smoking-room  after  nine.  Here 
Mr.  Polly,  who  had  been  an  only  child,  first  tasted  the  joys 
of  social  intercourse.  At  first  there  were  attempts  to  bully 
him  on  account  of  his  refusal  to  consider  face  washing  a 
diurnal  duty,  but  two  fights  with  the  apprentices  next 
above  him,  established  a  useful  reputation  for  choler,  and 
the  presence  of  girl  apprentices  in  the  shop  somehow 
raised  his  standard  of  cleanliness  to  a  more  acceptable 
level.  He  didn't  of  course  have  very  much  to  do  with 
the  feminine  staff  in  his  department,  but  he  spoke  to  them 
casually  as  he  traversed  foreign  parts  of  the  Bazaar,  or 
got  out  of  their  way  politely,  or  helped  them  to  lift  down 
heavy  boxes,  and  on  such  occasions  he  felt  their  scrutiny. 
Except  in  the  course  of  business  or  at  meal  times  the 
men  and  women  of  the  establishment  had  very  little  op- 
portunity of  meeting;  the  men  were  in  their  rooms  and 


i8  THE  HISTORY.   OF  MR.  POLLY, 

the  girls  in  theirs.  Yet  these  feminine  creatures,  at  once 
so  near  and  so  remote,  affected  him  profoundly.  He 
would  watch  them  going  to  and  fro,  and  marvel  secretly 
at  the  beauty  of  their  hair  or  the  roundness  of  their 
necks  or  the  warm  softness  of  their  cheeks  or  the  delicacy 
of  their  hands.  He  would  fall  into  passions  for  them  at 
dinner  time,  and  try  and  show  devotions  by  his  manner 
of  passing  the  bread  and  margarine  at  tea.  There  was  a 
very  fair-haired,  fair-skinned  apprentice  in  the  adjacent 
haberdashery  to  whom  he  said  "  good-morning  "  every 
morning,  and  for  a  period  it  seemed  to  him  the  most 
significant  event  in  his  day.  When  she  said,  "  I  do  hope 
it  will  be  fine  to-morrow,"  he  felt  it  marked  an  epoch. 
He  had  had  no  sisters,  and  was  innately  disposed  to  wor- 
ship womenkind.  But  he  did  not  betray  as  much  to 
Platt  and  Parsons. 

To  Platt  and  Parsons  he  affected  an  attitude  of  sea- 
soned depravity  towards  womankind.  Platt  and  Parsons 
were  his  contemporary  apprentices  in  departments  of  the 
drapery  shop,  and  the  three  were  drawn  together  into  a 
close  friendship  by  the  fact  that  all  their  names  began 
with  P.  They  decided  they  were  the  Three  Ps,  and  went 
about  together  of  an  evening  with  the  bearing  of  des- 
perate dogs.  Sometimes,  when  they  had  money,  they 
went  into  public  houses  and  had  drinks.  Then  they 
would  become  more  desperate  than  ever,  and  walk  along 
the  pavement  under  the  gas  lamps  arm  in  arm  singing. 
Platt  had  a  good  tenor  voice,  and  had  been  in  a  church 
choir,  and  so  he  led  the  singing;  Parsons  had  a  service- 


BEGINNINGS,   AND    THE   BAZAAR         19 

able  bellow,  which  roared  and  faded  and  roared  again 
very  wonderfully ;  Mr.  Polly's  share  was  an  extraordinary 
lowing  noise,  a  sort  of  flat  recitative  which  he  called 
"  singing  seconds."  They  would  have  sung  catches  if 
they  had  known  how  to  do  it,  but  as  it  was  they  sang 
melancholy  music  hall  songs  about  dying  soldiers  and  the 
old  folks  far  away. 

They  would  sometimes  go  into  the  quieter  residential 
quarters  of  Port  Burdock,  where  policemen  and  other  ob- 
stacles were  infrequent,  and  really  let  their  voices  soar 
like  hawks  and  feel  very  happy.  The  dogs  of  the  district 
would  be  stirred  to  hopeless  emulation,  and  would  keep 
it  up  for  long  after  the  Three  Ps  had  been  swallowed  up 
by  the  night.  One  jealous  brute  of  an  Irish  terrier  made 
a  gallant  attempt  to  bite  Parsons,  but  was  beaten  by  num- 
bers and  solidarity. 

The  three  Ps  took  the  utmost  interest  in  each  other 
and  found  no  other  company  so  good.  They  talked 
about  everything  in  the  world,  and  would  go  on  talking 
in  their  dormitory  after  the  gas  was  out  until  the  other 
men  were  reduced  to  throwing  boots ;  they  skulked  from 
their  departments  in  the  slack  hours  of  the  afternoon  to 
gossip  in  the  packing-room  of  the  warehouse;  on  Sun- 
days and  Bank  holidays  they  went  for  long  walks  to- 
gether, talking. 

Platt  was  white- faced  and  dark,  and  disposed  to  under- 
tones and  mystery  and  a  curiosity  about  society  and  the 
demi-monde.  He  kept  himself  au  courant  by  reading  a 
penny  paper  of  infinite  suggestion  called  Modern  So- 


20  THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

ciety.  Parsons  was  of  an  ampler  build,  already  promising 
fatness,  with  curly  hair  and  a  lot  of  rolling,  rollicking, 
curly  features,  and  a  large  blob-shaped  nose.  He  had  a 
great  memory  and  a  real  interest  in  literature.  He 
knew  great  portions  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton  by  heart, 
and  would  recite  them  at  the  slightest  provocation.  He 
read  everything  he  could  get  hold  of,  and  if  he  liked  it 
he  read  it  aloud.  It  did  not  matter  who  else  liked  it.  At 
first  Mr.  Polly  was  disposed  to  be  suspicious  of  this 
literature,  but  was  carried  away  by  Parsons'  enthusiasm. 
The  three  Ps  went  to  a  performance  of  "  Romeo  and 
Juliet "  at  the  Port  Burdock  Theatre  Royal,  and  hung 
over  the  gallery  fascinated.  After  that  they  made  a  sort 
of  password  of :  "  Do  you  bite  your  thumbs  at  Us, 
Sir?" 

To  which  the  countersign  was :  "  We  bite  our 
thumbs." 

For  weeks  the  glory  of  Shakespeare's  Verona  lit  Mr. 
Polly's  life.  He  walked  as  though  he  carried  a  sword  at 
his  side,  and  swung  a  mantle  from  his  shoulders.  He 
.went  through  the  grimy  streets  of  Port  Burdock  with 
•his  eye  on  the  first  floor  windows — looking  for  balconies. 
A  ladder  in  the  yard  flooded  his  mind  with  romantic 
ideas.  Then  Parsons  discovered  an  Italian  writer,  whose 
name  Mr.  Polly  rendered  as  "  Bocashieu,"  and  after 
some  excursions  into  that  author's  remains  the  talk  of 
Parsons  became  infested  with  the  word  "amours,"  and 
Mr.  Polly  would  stand  in  front  of  his  hosiery  fixtures 
trifling  with  paper  and  string  and  thinking  of  perennial 


BEGINNINGS,   'AND    THE   BAZAAR        21 

picnics  under  dark  olive  trees  in  the  everlasting  sunshine 
of  Italy. 

And  about  that  time  it  was  that  all  three  Ps  adopted 
turn-down  collars  and  large,  loose,  artistic  silk  ties,  which 
they  tied  very  much  on  one  side  and  wore  with  an  air  of 
defiance.  And  a  certain  swashbuckling  carriage. 

And  then  came  the  glorious  revelation  of  that  great 
Frenchman  whom  Mr.  Polly  called  "  Rabooloose."  The 
three  Ps  thought  the  birth  feast  of  Gargantua  the  most 
glorious  piece  of  writing  in  the  world,  and  I  am  not 
certain  they  were  wrong,  and  on  wet  Sunday  evenings 
when  there  was  danger  of  hymn  singing  they  would  get 
Parsons  to  read  it  aloud. 

Towards  the  several  members  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  who 
shared  the  dormitory,  the  three  Ps  always  maintained  a 
sarcastic  and  defiant  attitude. 

"  We  got  a  perfect  right  to  do  what  we  like  in  our 
corner,"  Platt  maintained.  "You  do  what  you  like  in 
yours." 

"But  the  language!"  objected  Morrison,  the  white- 
faced,  earnest-eyed  improver,  who  was  leading  a  pro- 
foundly religious  life  under  great  difficulties. 

"  Language,    man ! "     roared     Parsons,     "  why,     it's 

LITERATURE !  " 

"  Sunday  isn't  the  time  for  Literature." 

"  It's  the  only  time  we've  got.     And  besides " 

The  horrors  of  religious  controversy  would  begin.    .   .   . 

Mr.  Polly  stuck  loyally  to  the  Three  Ps,  but  in  the 

secret  places  of  his  heart  he  was  torn.    A  fire  of  convic- 


22  THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

tion  burnt  in  Morrison's  eyes  and  spoke  in  his  urgent 
persuasive  voice;  he  lived  the  better  life  manifestly, 
chaste  in  word  and  deed,  industrious,  studiously  kindly. 
When  the  junior  apprentice  had  sore  feet  and  home- 
sickness Morrison  washed  the  feet  and  comforted  the 
heart,  and  he  helped  other  men  to  get  through  with  their 
work  when  he  might  have  gone  early,  a  superhuman 
thing  to  do.  Polly  was  secretly  a  little  afraid  to  be  left 
alone  with  this  man  and  the  power  of  the  spirit  that  was 
in  him.  He  felt  watched. 

Platt,  also  struggling  with  things  his  mind  could 
not  contrive  to  reconcile,  said  "that  confounded  hypo- 
crite." 

"  He's  no  hypocrite,"  said  Parsons,  "  he's  no  hypocrite, 
O'  Man.  But  he's  got  no  blessed  Joy  de  Vive;  that's 
what's  wrong  with  him.  Let's  go  down  to  the  Harbour 
Arms  and  see  some  of  those  blessed  old  captains  getting 
drunk." 

"  Short  of  sugar,  O'  Man,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  slapping 
his  trowser  pocket. 

"  Oh,  carm  on,"  said  Parsons.  "  Always  do  it  on  tup- 
pence for  a  bitter." 

"  Lemme  get  my  pipe  on,"  said  Platt,  who  had  re- 
cently taken  to  smoking  with  great  ferocity.  "  Then 
I'm  with  you." 

Pause  and  struggle. 

"  Don't  rarn  it  down,  O'  Man,"  said  Parsons,  watch- 
ing with  knitted  brows.  "  Don't  ram  it  down.  Give  it 
Air.  Seen  my  stick,  O'  Man?  Right  O." 


BEGINNINGS,  AND    THE   BAZAAR        23 

And  leaning  on  his  cane  he  composed  himself  in  an  at- 
titude of  sympathetic  patience  towards  Platt's  incendiary 

efforts. 

IV 

Jolly  days  of  companionship  they  were  for  the  incipient 
bankrupt  on  the  stile  to  look  back  upon. 

The  interminable  working  hours  of  the  Bazaar  had 
long  since  faded  from  his  memory — except  for  one  or 
two  conspicuous  rows  and  one  or  two  larks — but  the  rare 
Sundays  and  holidays  shone  out  like  diamonds  among 
pebbles.  They  shone  with  the  mellow  splendour  of  even- 
ing skies  reflected  in  calm  water,  and  athwart  them  all 
went  old  Parsons  bellowing  an  interpretation  of  life,  ges- 
ticulating, appreciating  and  making  appreciate,  expound- 
ing books,  talking  of  that  mystery  of  his,  the  "  Joy  de 
Vive." 

There  were  some  particularly  splendid  walks  on  Bank 
holidays.  The  three  Ps  would  start  on  Sunday  morning 
early  and  find  a  room  in  some  modest  inn  and  talk  them- 
selves asleep,  and  return  singing  through  the  night,  or 
having  an  "  argy  bargy  "  about  the  stars,  on  Monday 
evening.  They  would  come  over  the  hills  out  of  the 
pleasant  English  country-side  in  which  they  had  wan- 
dered, and  see  Port  Burdock  spread  out  below,  a  net- 
work of  interlacing  street  lamps  and  shifting  tram  lights 
against  the  black,  beacon-gemmed  immensity  of  the  har- 
bour waters. 

"  Back  to  the  collar,  O'  Man,"  Parsons  would  say. 


24  THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

There  is  no  satisfactory  plural  to  O'  Man,  so  he  always 
used  it  in  the  singular. 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  said  Platt 

And  once  they  got  a  boat  for  the  whole  summer  day, 
and  rowed  up  past  the  moored  ironclads  and  the  black 
old  hulks  and  the  various  shipping  of  the  harbour,  past  a 
white  troopship  and  past  the  trim  front  and  the  ships  and 
interesting  vistas  of  the  dockyard  to  the  shallow  chan- 
nels and  rocky  weedy  wildernesses  of  the  upper  harbour. 
And  Parsons  and  Mr.  Polly  had  a  great  dispute  and  quar- 
rel that  day  as  to  how  far  a  big  gun  could  shoot. 

The  country  over  the  hills  behind  Port  Burdock  is  all 
that  an  old-fashioned,  scarcely  disturbed  English  country- 
side should  be.  In  those  days  the  bicycle  was  still  rare 
and  costly  and  the  motor  car  had  yet  to  come  and  stir  up 
rural  serenities.  The  three  P's  would  take  footpaths 
haphazard  across  fields,  and  plunge  into  unknown  wind- 
ing lanes  between  high  hedges  of  honeysuckle  and 
dogrose.  Greatly  daring,  they  would  follow  green  bridle 
paths  through  primrose  studded  undergrowths,  or  wander 
waist  deep  in  the  bracken  of  beech  woods.  About  twenty 
miles  from  Port  Burdock  there  came  a  region  of  hop 
gardens  and  hoast  crowned  farms,  and  further  on,  to  be 
reached  only  by  cheap  tickets  at  Bank  Holiday  times,  was 
a  sterile  ridge  of  very  clean  roads  and  red  sand  pits  and 
pines  and  gorse  and  heather.  The  three  Ps  could  not 
afford  to  buy  bicycles  and  they  found  boots  the  greatest 
item  of  their  skimpy  -expenditure.  They  threw  appear- 
ances to  the  winds  at  last  and  got  ready-made  working- 


BEGINNINGS,   AND    THE   BAZAAR        25 

men's  hob-nails.    There  was  much  discussion  and  strong 
feeling  over  this  step  in  the  dormitory. 

There  is  no  country-side  like  the  English  country-side 
for  those  who  have  learnt  to  love  it;  its  firm  yet  gentle 
lines  of  hill  and  dale,  its  ordered  confusion  of  features, 
its  deer  parks  and  downland,  its  castles  and  stately 
houses,  its  hamlets  and  old  churches,  its  farms  and  ricks 
and  great  barns  and  ancient  trees,  its  pools  and  ponds 
and  shining  threads  of  rivers;  its  flower-starred  hedge- 
rows, its  orchards  and  woodland  patches,  its  village 
greens  and  kindly  inns.  Other  country-sides  have  their 
pleasant  aspects,  but  none  such  variety,  none  that  shine  so 
steadfastly  throughout  the  year.  Picardy  is  pink  and 
white  and  pleasant  in  the  blossom  time,  Burgundy  goes 
on  with  its  sunshine  and  wide  hillsides  and  cramped  vine- 
yards, a  beautiful  tune  repeated  and  repeated,  Italy  gives 
salitas  and  wayside  chapels  and  chestnuts  and  olive 
orchards,  the  Ardennes  has  its  woods  and  gorges — 
Touraine  and  the  Rhineland,  the  wide  Campagna  with  its 
distant  Apennines,  and  the  neat  prosperities  and  moun- 
tain backgrounds  of  South  Germany,  all  clamour  their 
especial  merits  at  one's  memory.  And  there  are  the  hills 
and  fields  of  Virginia,  like  an  England  grown  very  big  and 
slovenly,  the  woods  and  big  river  sweeps  of  Pennsylvania, 
the  trim  New  England  landscape,  a  little  bleak  and  rather 
fine  like  the  New  England  mind,  and  the  wide  rough 
country  roads  and  hills  and  woodland  of  New  York 
State.  But  none  of  these  change  scene  and  character  in 
three  miles  of  walking,  nor  have  so  mellow  a  sunlight 


26  THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

nor  so  diversified  a  cloudland,  nor  confess  the  perpetual 
refreshment  of  the  strong  soft  winds  that  blow  from  off 
the  sea  as  our  Mother  England  does. 

It  was  good  for  the  three  Ps  to  walk  through  such 
a  land  and  forget  for  a  time  that  indeed  they  had  no  foot- 
ing in  it  all,  that  they  were  doomed  to  toil  behind 
counters  in  such  places  as  Port  Burdock  for  the  better 
part  of  their  lives.  They  would  forget  the  customers 
and  shopwalkers  and  department  buyers  and  everything, 
and  become  just  happy  wanderers  in  a  world  of  pleasant 
breezes  and  song  birds  and  shady  trees. 

The  arrival  at  the  inn  was  a  great  affair.  No  one, 
they  were  convinced,  would  take  them  for  drapers,  and 
there  might  be  a  pretty  serving  girl  or  a  jolly  old  ladys 
or  what  Parsons  called  a  "  bit  of  character  "  drinking  in 
the  bar. 

There  would  always  be  weighty  enquiries  as  to  what 
they  could  have,  and  it  would  work  out  always  at 
cold  beef  and  pickles,  or  fried  ham  and  eggs  and  shandy- 
gaff, two  pints  of  beer  and  two  bottles  of  ginger  beer 
foaming  in  a  huge  round-bellied  jug. 

The  glorious  moment  of  standing  lordly  in  the  inn 
doorway,  and  staring  out  at  the  world,  the  swinging  sign, 
the  geese  upon  the  green,  the  duckpond,  a  waiting 
waggon,  the  church  tower,  a  sleepy  cat,  the  blue  heavens, 
with  the  sizzle  of  the  frying  audible  behind  one!  The 
keen  smell  of  the  bacon!  The  trotting  of  feet  bearing 
the  repast;  the  click  and  clatter  as  the  tableware  is 
finally  arranged!  A  clean  white  cloth! 


BEGINNINGS,   AND    THE   BAZAAR        27 

"  Ready,  Sir !  "  or  "  Ready,  Gentlemen."  Better  hear- 
ing that  than  "  Forward  Polly !  look  sharp !  " 

The  going  in !    The  sitting  down !    The  falling  to ! 

"Bread,  O'  Man?" 

"  Right  O !    Don't  bag  all  the  crust,  O'  Man." 

Once  a  simple  mannered  girl  in  a  pink  print  dress 
stayed  and  talked  with  them  as  they  ate ;  led  by  the  gal- 
lant Parsons  they  professed  to  be  all  desperately  in  love 
with  her,  and  courted  her  to  say  which  she  preferred  of 
them,  it  was  so  manifest  she  did  prefer  one  and  so  impos- 
sible to  say  which  it  was  held  her  there,  until  a  dis- 
tant maternal  voice  called  her  away.  Afterwards  as  they 
left  the  inn  she  waylaid  them  at  the  orchard  corner  and 
gave  them,  a  little  shyly,  three  keen  yellow-green  ap- 
ples— and  wished  them  to  come  again  some  day,  and 
vanished,  and  reappeared  looking  after  them  as  they 
turned  the  corner — waving  a  white  handkerchief.  All 
the  rest  of  that  day  they  disputed  over  the  signs  of  her 
favour,  and  the  next  Sunday  they  went  there  again. 

But  she  had  vanished,  and  a  mother  of  forbidding 
aspect  afforded  no  explanations. 

If  Platt  and  Parsons  and  Mr.  Polly  live  to  be  a  hun- 
dred, they  will  none  of  them  forget  that  girl  as  she  stood 
with  a  pink  flush  upon  her,  faintly  smiling  and  yet 
earnest,  parting  the  branches  of  the  hedgerows  and 
reaching  down  apple  in  hand.  Which  of  them  was  it, 
had  caught  her  spirit  to  attend  to  them?  .  .  . 

And  once  they  went  along  the  coast,  following  it  as 
closely  as  possible,  and  so  came  at  last  to  Foxbourne,  that 


28  THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.  POLLY 

easternmost  suburb  of  Biayling  and  Hampsted-on-the- 
Sea. 

Foxbourne  seemed  a  very  jolly  little  place  to  Mr.  Polly 
that  afternoon.  It  has  a  clean  sandy  beach  instead  of 
the  mud  and  pebbles  and  coaly  defilements  of  Port  Bur- 
dock, a  row  of  six  bathing  machines,  and  a  shelter  on 
the  parade  in  which  the  three  Ps  sat  after  a  satisfying 
but  rather  expensive  lunch  that  had  included  celery. 
•Rows  of  verandahed  villas  proffered  apartments,  they 
had  feasted  in  an  hotel  with  a  porch  painted  white  and 
gay  with  geraniums  above,  and  the  High  Street  with  the 
old  church  at  the  head  had  been  full  of  an  agreeable  af- 
ternoon stillness. 

"  Nice  little  place  for  business,"  said  Platt  sagely  from 
behind  his  big  pipe. 

It  stuck  in  Mr.  Polly's  memory. 


Mr.  Polly  was  not  so  picturesque  a  youth  as  Parsons. 
He  lacked  richness  in  his  voice,  and  went  about  in  those 
days  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  looking  quietly  specu- 
lative. 

He  specialised  in  slang  and  the  disuse  of  English,  and 
he  played  the  role  of  an  appreciative  stimulant  to  Par- 
sons. Words  attracted  him  curiously,  words  rich  in  sug- 
gestion, and  he  loved  a  novel  and  striking  phrase.  His 
school  training  had  given  him  little  or  no  mastery  of  the 
mysterious  pronunciation  of  English  and  no  confidence  in 


BEGINNINGS,  AND   THE   BAZAAR       29 

himself.  His  schoolmaster  indeed  had  been  both  unsound 
and  variable.  New  words  had  terror  and  fascination 
for  him;  he  did  not  acquire  them,  he  could  not  avoid 
them,  and  so  he  plunged  into  them.  His  only  rule  was 
not  to  be  misled  by  the  spelling.  That  was  no  guide 
anyhow.  He  avoided  every  recognised  phrase  in  the 
language  and  mispronounced  everything  in  order  that 
he  shouldn't  be  suspected  of  ignorance,  but  whim. 

"  Sesquippledan,"  he  would  say.  "  Sesquippledan  ver- 
boojuice." 

"Eh?"  said  Platt. 

"  Eloquent  Rapsodooce." 

"Where?  "asked  Platt. 

"  In  the  warehouse,  O'  Man.  All  among  the  tablecloths 
and  blankets.  Carlyle.  He's  reading  aloud.  Doing  the 
High  Froth.  Spuming!  Windmilling!  Waw,  waw! 
It's  a  sight  worth  seeing.  He'll  bark  his  blessed  knuckles 
one  of  these  days  on  the  fixtures,  O'  Man." 

He  held  an  imaginary  book  in  one  hand  and  waved  an 
eloquent  gesture.  "  So  too  shall  every  Hero  inasmuch 
as  notwithstanding  for  evermore  come  back  to  Reality," 
he  parodied  the  enthusiastic  Parsons,  "  so  that  in  fashion 
and  thereby,  upon  things  and  not  under  things  articulari- 
ously  He  stands." 

"  I  should  laugh  if  the  Governor  dropped  on  him," 
said  Platt.  "  He'd  never  hear  him  coming." 

"  The  O'  Man's  drunk  with  it— fair  drunk,"  said  Polly. 
"I  never  did.  It's  worse  than  when  he  got  on  to  Ra- 
boloose." 


CHAPTER  THE  SECOND 

THE  DISMISSAL,  OF  PARSONS 


SUDDENLY  Parsons  got  himself  dismissed. 
He  got  himself  dismissed  under  circumstances 
of  peculiar  violence,  that  left  a  deep  impression 
on  Mr.  Polly's  mind.    He  wondered  about  it  for  years 
afterwards,  trying  to  get  the  rights  of  the  case. 

Parsons  apprenticehsip  was  over;  he  had  reached  the 
status  of  an  Improver,  and  he  dressed  the  window  of  the 
Manchester  department.  By  all  the  standards  available 
he  dressed  it  very  well.  By  his  own  standards  he  dressed 
it  wonderfully.  "  Well,  O'  Man/'  he  used  to  say, 
"  there's  one  thing  about  my  position  here, — I  can  dress 
a  window." 

And  when  trouble  was  under  discussion  he  would  hold 
that  "  little  Fluffums " — which  was  the  apprentices' 
name  for  Mr.  Garvace,  the  senior  partner  and  managing 
director  of  the  Bazaar — would  think  twice  before  he  got 
rid  of  the  only  man  in  the  place  who  could  make  a  win- 
dowful  of  Manchester  goods  tell. 

Then  like  many  a  fellow  artist  he  fell  a  prey  to 
theories. 

"  The  art  of  window  dressing  is  in  its  infancy,  O'  Man 

33 


34  THE  HISTORY.   OF  MR.  POLLY 

— in  its  blooming  Infancy.  All  balance  and  stiffness  like 
a  blessed  Egyptian  picture.  No  Joy  in  it,  no  blooming 
Joy!  Conventional.  A  shop  window  ought  to  get  hold 
of  people,  grip  'em  as  they  go  along.  It  stands  to  reason. 
Grip!" 

His  voice  would  sink  to  a  kind  of  quiet  bellow.  "  Do 
they  grip  ?  " 

Then  after  a  pause,  a  savage  roar;  " Naw! " 

"  He's  got  a  Heavy  on,"  said  Mr.  Polly.  "  Go  it,  O' 
Man ;  let's  have  some  more  of  it." 

"  Look  at  old  Morrison's  dress-stuff  windows !  Tidy, 
tasteful,  correct,  I  grant  you,  but  Bleak ! "  He  let  out 
the  word  reinforced  to  a  shout ;  "  Bleak ! " 

"Bleak!"  echoed  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Just  pieces  of  stuff  in  rows,  rows  of  tidy  little  puffs, 
perhaps  one  bit  just  unrolled,  quiet  tickets." 

"  Might  as  well  be  in  church,  O'  Man,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  A  window  ought  to  be  exciting,"  said  Parsons ;  "  it 
ought  to  make  you  say :  E1-/0  /  when  you  see  it." 

He  paused,  and  Platt  watched  him  over  a  snorting 
pipe. 

"  Rockcockyo,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  We  want  a  new  school  of  window  dressing,"  said 
Parsons,  regardless  of  the  comment.  "  A  New  School ! 
The  Port  Burdock  school.  Day  after  to-morrow  I  change 
the  Fitzallan  Street  stuff.  This  time,  it's  going  to  be  a 
change.  I  mean  to  have  a  crowd  or  bust !  " 

And  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  did  both. 

His  voice  dropped  to  a  note  of  self-reproach.     "  I've 


THE  DISMISSAL   OF  PARSONS          35 

been  timid,  O'  Man.  I've  been  holding  myself  in.  I 
haven't  done  myself  Justice.  I've  kept  down  the  sim- 
mering, seething,  teeming  ideas.  .  .  .  All  that's  over 
now." 

"  Over,"  gulped  Polly. 

"  Over  for  good  and  all,  O'  Man." 


II 

Platt  came  to  Polly,  whd  was  sorting  up  collar  boxes. 
"  O'  Man's  doing  his  Blooming  Window." 

"What  window?" 

"  What  he  said." 

Polly  remembered. 

He  went  on  with  his  collar  boxes  with  his  eye  on  his 
senior,  Mansfield.  Mansfield  was  presently  called  away 
to  the  counting  house,  and  instantly  Polly  shot  out  by 
the  street  door,  and  made  a  rapid  transit  along  the  street 
front  past  the  Manchester  window,  and  so  into  the 
silkroom  door.  He  could  not  linger  long,  but  he  gathered 
joy,  a  swift  and  fearful  joy,  from  his  brief  inspection  of 
Parsons'  unconscious  back.  Parsons  had  his  tail  coat 
off  and  was  working  with  vigour ;  his  habit  of  pulling  his 
waistcoat  straps  to  the  utmost  brought  out  all  the  agree- 
able promise  of  corpulence  in  his  youthful  frame.  He 
was  blowing  excitedly  and  running  his  fingers  through 
his  hair,  and  then  moving  with  all  the  swift  eagerness  of 
a  man  inspired.  All  about  his  feet  and  knees  were  scar- 
let blankets,  not  folded,  not  formally  unfolded,  but — the 


36  THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.  POLLY 

only  phrase  is — shied  about.  And  a  great  bar  sinister 
of  roller  towelling  stretched  across  the  front  of  the  win- 
dow on  which  was  a  ticket,  and  the  ticket  said  in  bold 
black  letters:  "LOOK!" 

So  soon  as  Mr.  Polly  got  into  the  silk  department  and 
met  Platt  he  knew  he  had  not  lingered  nearly  long  enough 
outside.  "  Did  you  see  the  boards  at  the  back  ?  "  said 
Platt. 

He  hadn't.  "  The  High  Egrugious  is  fairly  On,"  he 
said,  and  dived  down  to  return  by  devious  subterranean 
routes  to  the  outfitting  department. 

Presently  the  street  door  opened  and  Platt,  with  an  air 
of  intense  devotion  to  business  assumed  -  to  cover  his 
adoption  of  that  unusual  route,  came  in  and  made  for 
the  staircase  down  to  the  warehouse.  He  rolled  up  his 
eyes  at  Polly.  "  Oh  Lor!"  he  said  and  vanished. 

Irresistible  curiosity  seized  Polly.  Should  he  go 
through  the  shop  to  the  Manchester  department,  or  risk 
a  second  transit  outside? 

He  was  impelled  to  make  a  dive  at  the  street 
door. 

"  Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Mansfield. 

"  Lill  Dog,"  said  Polly  with  an  air  of  lucid  explanations, 
and  left  him  to  get  any  meaning  he  could  from  it. 
1     Parsons  was  worth  the  subsequent  trouble.     Parsons 
really  was  extremely  rich.    This  time  Polly  stopped  to 
take  it  in. 

Parsons  had  made  a  huge  symmetrical  pile  of  thick 
white  and  red  blankets  twisted  and  rolled  to  accentuate 


THE  DISMISSAL   OF  PARSONS          37 

their  woolly  richness,  heaped  up  in  a  warm  disorder,  with 
large  window  tickets  inscribed  in  blazing  red  letters: 
"  Cosy  Comfort  at  Cut  Prices,"  and  "  Curl  up  and  Cud- 
dle below  Cost."  Regardless  of  the  daylight  he  had 
turned  up  the  electric  light  on  that  side  of  the  window  to 
reflect  a  warm  glow  upon  the  heap,  and  behind,  in  pur- 
suit of  contrasted  bleakness,  he  was  now  hanging  long 
strips  of  grey  silesia  and  chilly  coloured  linen  dusterings. 

It  was  wonderful,  but — 

Mr.  Polly  decided  that  it  was  time  he  went  in.  He 
found  Platt  in  the  silk  department,  apparently  on  the 
verge  of  another  plunge  into  the  exterior  world.  "  Cosy 
Comfort  at  Cut  Prices,"  said  Polly.  "  Allittritions  Artful 
Aid." 

He  did  not  dare  go  into  the  street  for  the  third  time, 
and  he  was  hovering  feverishly  near  the  window  when 
he  saw  the  governor,  Mr.  Garvace,  that  is  to  say,  the 
managing  director  of  the  Bazaar,  walking  along  the 
pavement  after  his  manner  to  assure  himself  all  was  well 
with  the  establishment  he  guided. 

Mr.  Garvace  was  a  short  stout  man,  with  that  air  of 
modest  pride  that  so  often  goes  with  corpulence,  choleric 
and  decisive  in  manner,  and  with  hands  that  looked  like 
bunches  of  fingers.  He  was  red-haired  and  ruddy,  and 
after  the  custom  of  such  complexions,  hairs  sprang  from 
the  tip  of  his  nose.  When  he  wished  to  bring  the  power 
of  the  human  eye  to  bear  upon  an  assistant,  he  pro- 
jected his  chest,  knitted  one  brow  and  partially  closed 
the  left  eyelid. 


38  THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

An  expression  of  speculative  wonder  overspread  the 
countenance  of  Mr.  Polly.  He  felt  he  must  see.  Yes, 
whatever  happened  he  must  see. 

"  Want  to  speak  to  Parsons,  Sir,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Mans- 
field, and  deserted  his  post  hastily,  dashed  through  the 
intervening  departments  and  was  in  position  behind  a 
pile  of  Bolton  sheeting  as  the  governor  came  in  out  of 
the  street. 

"  What  on  Earth  do  you  think  you  are  doing  with  that 
window,  Parsons?  "  began  Mr.  Garvace. 

Only  the  legs  of  Parsons  and  the  lower  part  of  his 
waistcoat  and  an  intervening  inch  of  shirt  were  visible. 
He  was  standing  inside  the  window  on  the  steps,  hanging 
up  the  last  strip  of  his  background  from  the  brass  rail 
along  the  ceiling.  Within,  the  Manchester  shop  window: 
was  cut  off  by  a  partition  rather  like  the  partition  of  an 
old-fashioned  church  pew  from  the  general  space  of  the 
shop.  There  was  a  panelled  barrier,  that  is  to  say,  with 
a  little  door  like  a  pew  door  in  it.  Parsons'  face  appeared, 
staring  with  round  eyes  at  his  employer. 

Mr.  Garvace  had  to  repeat  his  question. 

"  Dressing  it,  Sir — on  new  lines." 

"  Come  out  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Garvace. 

Parsons  stared,  and  Mr.  Garvace  had  to  repeat  his 
command. 

Parsons,  with  a  dazed  expression,  began  to  descend  the 
steps  slowly. 

Mr.  Garvace  turned  about.  "  Where's  Morrison  ? 
Morrison ! " 


THE  DISMISSAL   OF  PARSONS  39 

Morrison  appeared. 

"  Take  this  window  over,"  said  Mr.  Garvace  pointing 
his  bunch  of  fingers  at  Parsons.  "  Take  all  this  muddle 
out  and  dress  it  properly." 

Morrison  advanced  and  hesitated. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir,"  said  Parsons  with  an  im- 
mense politeness,  "  but  this  is  my  window." 

"  Take  it  all  out,"  said  Mr.  Garvace,  turning  away. 

Morrison  advanced.  Parsons  shut  the  door  with  a 
click  that  arrested  Mr.  Garvace. 

"  Come  out  of  that  window,"  he  said.  "  You  can't 
dress  it.  If  you  want  to  play  the  fool  with  a  win- 
dow- 

"  This  window's  All  Right,"  said  the  genius  in  window 
dressing,  and  there  was  a  little  pause. 

"  Open  the  door  and  go  right  in,"  said  Mr.  Garvace  to 
Morrison. 

"  You  leave  that  door  alone,  Morrison,"  said  Parsons. 

Polly  was  no  longer  even  trying  to  hide  behind  the 
stack  of  Bolton  sheetings.  He  realised  he  was  in  the 
presence  of  forces  too  stupendous  to  heed  him. 

"  Get  him  out/'  said  Mr.  Garvace. 

Morrison  seemed  to  be  thinking  out  the  ethics  of  his 
position.  The  idea  of  loyalty  to  his  employer  prevailed 
with  him.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the  door  to  open  it; 
Parsons  tried  to  disengage  his  hand.  Mr.  Garvace  joined 
his  effort  to  Morrison's.  Then  the  heart  of  Polly  leapt 
and  the  world  blazed  up  to  wonder  and  splendour.  Par- 
sons disappeared  behind  the  partition  for  a  moment  and 


40  THE  HISTORY,  OF.  MR.  POLLY 

reappeared  instantly,  gripping  a  thin  cylinder  of  rolled 
huckaback.  With  this  he  smote  at  Morrison's  head. 
Morrison's  head  ducked  under  the  resounding  impact, 
but  he  clung  on  and  so  did  Mr.  Garvace.  The  door  came 
open,  and  then  Mr.  Garvace  was  staggering  back,  hand 
to  head;  his  autocratic,  his  sacred  baldness,  smitten. 
Parsons  was  beyond  all  control — a  strangeness,  a  mar- 
vel. Heaven  knows  how  the  artistic  struggle  had 
strained  that  richly  endowed  temperament.  "  Say  I  can't 
'dress  a  window,  you  thundering  old  Humbug,"  he  said, 
and  hurled  the  huckaback  at  his  master.  He  followed 
this  up  by  hurling  first  a  blanket,  then  an  armful  of 
silesia,  then  a  window  support  out  of  the  window  into 
the  shop.  It  leapt  into  Polly's  mind  that  Parsons  hated 
his  own  effort  and  was  glad  to  demolish  it.  For  a 
crowded  second  Polly's  mind  was  concentrated  upon 
Parsons,  infuriated,  active,  like  a  figure  of  earthquake 
with  its  coat  off,  shying  things  headlong. 

Then  he  perceived  the  back  of  Mr.  Garvace  and  heard 
his  gubernatorial  voice  crying  to  no  one  in  particular 
and  everybody  in  general :  "  Get  him  out  of  the  window. 
'He's  mad.  He's  dangerous.  Get  him  out  of  the  win- 
dow." 

Then  a  crimson  blanket  was  for  a  moment  over  the 
head  of  Mr.  Garvace,  and  his  voice,  muffled  for  an  in- 
stant, broke  out  into  unwonted  expletive. 

Then  people  had  arrived  from  all  parts  of  the  Bazaar. 
Luck,  the  ledger  clerk,  blundered  against  Polly  and  said, 
"  Help  him !  "  Somerville  from  the  silks  vaulted  the 


THE   DISMISSAL    OF  PARSONS  41 

counter,  and  seized  a  chair  by  the  back.  Polly  lost  his 
head.  He  clawed  at  the  Bolton  sheeting  before  him, 
and  if  he  could  have  detached  a  piece  he  would  certainly 
have  hit  somebody  with  it.  As  it  was  he  simply  upset  the 
pile.  It  fell  away  from  Polly,  and  he  had  an  impression 
of  somebody  squeaking  as  it  went  down.  It  was  the  sort 
of  impression  one  disregards.  The  collapse  of  the  pile 
of  goods  just  sufficed  to  end  his  subconscious  efforts  to 
get  something  to  hit  somebody  with,  and  his  whole  at- 
tention focussed  itself  upon  the  struggle  in  the  window. 
For  a  splendid  instant  Parsons  towered  up  over  the  active 
backs  that  clustered  about  the  shop  window  door,  an 
active  whirl  of  gesture,  tearing  things  down  and  throw- 
ing them,  and  then  he  went  under.  There  was  an  in- 
stant's furious  struggle,  a  crash,  a  second  crash  and  the 
crack  of  broken  plate  glass.  Then  a  stillness  and  heavy 
breathing. 

Parsons  was  overpowered.     .     .     . 

Polly,  stepping  over  scattered  pieces  of  Bolton  sheet- 
ing, saw  his  transfigured  friend  with  a  dark  cut,  that  was 
not  at  present  bleeding,  on  the  forehead,  one  arm  held  by 
Somerville  and  the  other  by  Morrison. 

"  You — you— you — you  annoyed  me,"  said  Parsons, 
sobbing  for  breath. 

Ill 

There  are  events  that  detach  themselves  from  the  gen- 
eral stream  of  occurrences  and  seem  to  partake  of  the 
nature  of  revelations.  Such  was  this  Parsons  affair.  It 


42  THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

began  by  seeming  grotesque;  it  ended  disconcertingly. 
The  fabric  of  Mr.  Polly's  daily  life  was  torn,  and  beneath 
it  he  discovered  depths  and  terrors. 

Life  was  not  altogether  a  lark. 

The  calling  in  of  a  policeman  seemed  at  the  moment  a 
pantomime  touch.  But  when  it  became  manifest  that  Mr. 
Garvace  was  in  a  fury  of  vindictiveness,  the  affair  took 
on  a  different  complexion.  The  way  in  which  the  police- 
man made  a  note  of  everything  and  aspirated  nothing 
impressed  the  sensitive  mind  of  Polly  profoundly.  Polly 
presently  found  himself  straightening  up  ties  to  the  re- 
frain of  "  'E  then  'It  you  on  the  'Ed  and " 

In  the  dormitory  that  night  Parsons  had  become  heroic. 
He  sat  on  the  edge  of  ttye  bed  with  his  head  bandaged, 
packing  very  slowly  and  insisting  over  and  again :  "  He 
ought  to  have  left  my  window  alone,  O'  Man.  He  didn't 
ought  to  have  touched  my  window." 

Polly  was  to  go  to  the  police  court  in  the  morning  as 
a  witness.  The  terror  of  that  ordeal  almost  over- 
shadowed the  tragic  fact  that  Parsons  was  not  only  sum- 
moned for  assault,  but  "  swapped,"  and  packing  his  box. 
Polly  knew  himself  well  enough  to  know  he  would  make 
a  bad  witness.  He  felt  sure  of  one  fact  only,  namely,  that 

"  'E  then  'It  'Im  on  the  'Ed  and "  All  the  rest  danced 

about  in  his  mind  now,  and  how  it  would  dance  about  on 
the  morrow  Heaven  only  knew.  Would  there  be  a  cross- 
examination?  Is  it  perjoocery  to  make  a  slip?  People 
did  sometimes  per  juice  themselves.  Serious  offence. 


THE   DISMISSAL    OF  PARSONS  43 

Platt  was  doing  his  best  to  help  Parsons,  and  inciting 
public  opinion  against  Morrison.  But  Parsons  would 
not  hear  of  anything  against  Morrison.  "  He  was  all 
right,  O'  Man — according  to  his  lights,"  said  Parsons. 
"  It  isn't  him  I  complain  of." 

He  speculated  on  the  morrow.  "  I  shall  'ave  to  pay  a 
fine,"  he  said.  "  No  good  trying  to  get  out  of  it.  It's 
true  I  hit  him.  I  hit  him  " — he  paused  and  seemed  to  be 
seeking  an  exquisite  accuracy.  His  voice  sank  to  a  con- 
fidential note ; — "  On  the  head — about  here." 

He  answered  the  suggestion  of  a  bright  junior  appren- 
tice in  a  corner  of  the  dormitory.  "  What's  the  Good 
of  a  Cross  summons  ?  "  he  replied ;  "  with  old  Corks,  the 
chemist,  and  Mottishead,  the  house  agent,  and  all  that 
lot  on  the  Bench?  Humble  Pie,  that's  my  meal  to-mor- 
row, O'  Man.  Humble  Pie." 

Packing  went  on  for  a  time. 

"  But  Lord !  what  a  Life  it  is ! "  said  Parsons,  giving 
his  deep  notes  scope.  "  Ten-thirty-five  a  man  trying  to 
do  his  Duty,  mistaken  perhaps,  but  trying  his  best ;  ten- 
forty — Ruined !  Ruined !  "  He  lifted  his  voice  to  a 
shout.  "  Ruined !  "  and  dropped  it  to  "  Like  an  earth- 
quake." 

"  Heated  altaclation,"  said  Polly. 

"  Like  a  blooming  earthquake ! "  said  Parsons,  with 
the  notes  of  a  rising  wind. 

He  meditated  gloomily  upon  his  future  and  a  colder 
chill  invaded  Polly's  mind.  "  Likely  to  get  another  crib, 


44  THE   HISTORY   OF   MR.   POLLY 

ain't  I — with  assaulted  the  guvnor  on  my  reference.  I 
suppose,  though,  he  won't  give  me  refs.  Hard  enough  to 
get  a  crib  at  the  best  of  times,"  said  Parsons. 

"  You  ought  to  go  round  with  a  show,  O'Man,"  said 
Mr.  Polly. 

Things  were  not  so  dreadful  in  the  police  court  as 
Mr.  Polly  had  expected.  He  was  given  a  seat  with  other 
witnesses  against  the  wall  of  the  court,  and  after  an  in- 
teresting larceny  case  Parsons  appeared  and  stood,  not  in 
the  dock,  but  at  the  table.  By  that  time  Mr.  Polly's  legs, 
which  had  been  tucked  up  at  first  under  his  chair  out  of 
respect  to  the  court,  were  extended  straight  before  him 
and  his  hands  were  in  his  trouser  pockets.  He  was  in- 
venting names  for  the  four  magistrates  on  the  bench, 
and  had  got  to  "  the  Grave  and  Reverend  Signer  with 
the  palatial  Boko,"  when  his  thoughts  were  recalled  to 
gravity  by  the  sound  of  his  name.  He  rose  with  alacrity 
and  was  fielded  by  an  expert  policeman  from  a  brisk 
attempt  to  get  into  the  vacant  dock.  The  clerk 
to  the  Justices  repeated  the  oath  with  incredible  ra- 
pidity. 

"  Right  O,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  but  quite  respectfully,  and 
kissed  the  book. 

His  evidence  was  simple  and  quite  audible  after  one 
warning  from  the  superintendent  of  police  to  "  speak 
up."  He  tried  to  put  in  a  good  word  for  Parsons  by 
saying  he  was  "  naturally  of  a  choleraic  disposition,"  but 
the  start  and  the  slow  grin  of  enjoyment  upon  the  face 


THE   DISMISSAL    OF  PARSONS  45 

of  the  grave  and  Reverend  Signor  with  the  palatial 
Boko  suggested  that  the  word  was  not  so  good  as  he 
had  thought  it.  The  rest  of  the  bench  was  frankly  puz- 
zled and  there  were  hasty  consultations. 

"  You  mean  'E  'As  a  'Ot  temper,"  said  the  presiding 
magistrate. 

"  I  mean  'E  'As  a  'Ot  temper,"  replied  Polly,  magically 
incapable  of  aspirates  for  the  moment. 

"You  don't  mean  'E  ketches  cholera." 

"  I  mean — he's  easily  put  out." 

"  Then  why  can't  you  say  so  ? "  said  the  presiding 
magistrate. 

Parsons  was  bound  over. 

He  came  for  his  luggage  while  every  one  was  in  the 
shop,  and  Garvace  would  not  let  him  invade  the  business 
to  say  good-by.  When  Mr.  Polly  went  upstairs  for 
margarine  and  bread  and  tea,  he  slipped  on  into  the 
dormitory  at  once  to  see  what  was  happening  further  in 
the  Parsons  case.  But  Parsons  had  vanished.  There 
was  no  Parsons,  no  trace  of  Parsons.  His  cubicle  was 
swept  and  garnished.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Polly 
had  a  sense  of  irreparable  loss. 

A  minute  or  so  after  Platt  dashed  in. 

"  Ugh ! "  he  said,  and  then  discovered  Polly.  Polly 
was  leaning  out  of  the  window  and  did  not  look  around. 
Platt  went  up  to  him. 

"  He's  gone  already,"  said  Platt.  "  Might  have  stopped 
to  say  good-by  to  a  chap." 


46  THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

There  was  a  little  pause  before  Polly  replied.  He 
thrust  his  finger  into  his  mouth  and  gulped. 

"  Bit  on  that  beastly  tooth  of  mine,"  he  said,  still  not 
looking  at  Platt.  "  It's  made  my  eyes  water,  something 
chronic.  Any  one  might  think  I'd  been  doing  a  blooming 
Pipe,  by  the  look  of  me." 


CRIBS 


CHAPTER   THE   THIRD 

CRIBS 


PORT  BURDOCK  was  never  the  same  place  for 
Mr.  Polly  after  Parsons  had  left  it.  There  were 
no  chest  notes  in  his  occasional  letters,  and  little  of 
the  "  Joy  de  Vive  "  got  through  by  them.  Parsons  had 
gone,  he  said,  to  London,  and  found  a  place  as  warehouse- 
man in  a  cheap  outfitting  shop  near  St.  Paul's  Church- 
yard, where  references  were  not  required.  It  became  ap- 
parent as  time  passed  that  new  interests  were  absorbing 
him.  He  wrote  of  socialism  and  the  rights  of  man,  things 
that  had  no  appeal  for  Mr.  Polly.  He  felt  strangers  had 
got  hold  of  his  Parsons,  were  at  work  upon  him,  making 
him  into  someone  else,  something  less  picturesque.  .  .  , 
Port  Burdock  became  a  dreariness  full  of  faded  memories 
of  Parsons  and  work  a  bore.  Platt  revealed  himself  alone 
as  a  tiresome  companion,  obsessed  by  romantic  ideas 
about  intrigues  and  vices  and  "  society  women." 

Mr.  Polly's  depression  manifested  itself  in  a  general 
slackness.  A  certain  impatience  in  the  manner  of  Mr. 
Garvace  presently  got  upon  his  nerves.  Relations  were 
becoming  strained.  He  asked  for  a  rise  of  salary  to 

49 


50  THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

test  his  position,  and  gave  notice  to  leave  when  it  was 
refused. 

It  took  him  two  months  to  place  himself  in  another 
situation,  and  during  that  time  he  had  quite  a  disagree- 
able amount  of  loneliness,  disappointment,  anxiety  and 
humiliation. 

He  went  at  first  to  stay  with  a  married  cousin  who  had 
a  house  at  Easewood.  His  widowed  father  had  recently 
given  up  the  music  and  bicycle  shop  (with  the  post  of 
organist  at  the  parish  church)  that  had  sustained  his 
home,  and  was  living  upon  a  small  annuity  as  a  guest 
with  this  cousin,  and  growing  a  little  tiresome  on  account 
of  some  mysterious  internal  discomfort  that  the  local 
practitioner  diagnosed  as  imagination.  He  had  aged 
with  mysterious  rapidity  and  become  excessively  irri- 
table, but  the  cousin's  wife  was  a  born  manager,  and 
contrived  to  get  along  with  him.  Our  Mr.  Polly's  status 
was  that  of  a  guest  pure  and  simple,  but  after  a  fortnight 
of  congested  hospitality  in  which  he  wrote  nearly  a  hun- 
dred letters  beginning: 

f 

Sir: 

Referring  to  your  advt.  in  the  "  Christian  World  "  for 
an  improver  in  Gents'  outfitting  I  beg  to  submit  myself 
for  the  situation.  Have  had  six  years'  experience.  .  .  . 

and  upset  a  bottle  of  ink  over  a  toilet  cover  and  the  bed- 
room carpet,  his  cousin  took  him  for  a  walk  and  pointed 
out  the  superior  advantages  of  apartments  in  London 
from  which  to  swoop  upon  the  briefly  yawning  vacancy. 


CRIBS  51 

"Helpful,"  said  Mr.  Polly;  "very  helpful,  O'  Man  in- 
deed. I  might  have  gone  on  there  for  weeks,"  and 
packed. 

He  got  a  room  in  an  institution  that  was  partly  a 
benevolent  hostel  for  men  in  his  circumstances  and  partly 
a  high  minded  but  forbidding  coffee  house  and  a  centre 
for  pleasant  Sunday  afternoons.  Mr.  Polly  spent  a 
critical  but  pleasant  Sunday  afternoon  in  a  back  seat, 
inventing  such  phrases  as : 

"  Soulful  Owner  of  the  Exorbiant  Largenial  Devel- 
opment."— An  Adam's  Apple  being  in  question. 

"  Earnest  Joy." 

"  Exultant,  Urgent  Loogoobuosity." 

A  manly  young  curate,  marking  and  misunderstanding 
his  preoccupied  face  and  moving  lips,  came  and  sat  by 
him  and  entered  into  conversation  with  the  idea  of  mak- 
ing him  feel  more  at  home.  The  conversation  was  awk- 
ward and  disconnected  for  a  minute  or  so,  and  then 
suddenly  a  memory  of  the  Port  Burdock  Bazaar  occurred 
to  Mr.  Polly,  and  with  a  baffling  whisper  of  "  Lill'  dog," 
and  a  reassuring  nod,  he  rose  up  and  escaped,  to  wander 
out  relieved  and  observant  into  the  varied  London 
streets. 

He  found  the  collection  of  men  he  found  waiting  about 
in  wholesale  establishments  in  Wood  Street  and  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard  (where  they  interview  the  buyers  who  have 
come  up  from  the  country)  interesting  and  stimulating, 
but  far  too  strongly  charged  with  the  suggestion  of  his 
own  fate  to  be  really  joyful.  There  were  men  in  all  de- 


52  THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

grees  between  confidence  and  distress,  and  in  every  stage 
between  extravagant  smartness  and  the  last  stages  of 
decay.  There  were  sunny  young  men  full  of  an  abound- 
ing and  elbowing  energy,  before  whom  the  soul  of  Polly 
sank  in  hate  and  dismay.  "  Smart  Juniors,"  said  Polly  to 
himself,  "  full  of  Smart  Juniosity.  The  Shoveacious 
Cult."  There  were  hungry  looking  individuals  of  thirty- 
five  or  so  that  he  decided  must  be  "  Proletelerians  " — 
he  had  often  wanted  to  find  someone  who  fitted  that  at- 
tractive word.  Middle-aged  men,  "  too  Old  at  Forty," 
discoursed  in  the  waiting-rooms  on  the  outlook  in  the 
trade ;  it  had  never  been  so  bad,  they  said,  while  Mr.  Polly 
wondered  if  "  De-juiced "  was  a  permissible  epithet. 
There  were  men  with  an  overweening  sense  of  their  im- 
portance, manifestly  annoyed  and  angry  to  find  them- 
selves still  disengaged,  and  inclined  to  suspect  a  plot,  and 
men  so  faint-hearted  one  was  terrified  to  imagine  their 
behaviour  when  it  came  to  an  interview.  There  was  a 
fresh-faced  young  man  with  an  unintelligent  face  who 
seemed  to  think  himself  equipped  against  the  world  be- 
yond all  misadventure  by  a  collar  of  exceptional  height, 
and  another  who  introduced  a  note  of  gaiety  by  wearing 
a  flannel  shirt  and  a  check  suit  of  remark'able  virulence. 
Every  day  Mr.  Polly  looked  round  to  mark  how  many 
of  the  familiar  faces  had  gone,  and  the  deepening 
anxiety  (reflecting  his  own)  on  the  faces  that  remained, 
and  every  day  some  new  type  joined  the  drifting  shoal. 
He  realised  how  small  a  chance  his  poor  letter  from 


CRIBS.  53 

Easewood  ran  against  this  hungry  cluster  of  com- 
petitors at  the  fountain  head. 

At  the  back  of  Mr.  Polly's  mind  while  he  made  his  ob- 
servations was  a  disagreeable  flavour  of  dentist's  par- 
lour. At  any  moment  his  name  might  be  shouted,  and 
he  might  have  to  haul  himself  into  the  presence  of  some 
fresh  specimen  of  employer,  and  to  repeat  once  more  his 
passionate  protestation  of  interest  in  the  business,  his 
possession  of  a  capacity  for  zeal — zeal  on  behalf  of  any- 
one who  would  pay  him  a  yearly  salary  of  twenty-six 
pounds  a  year. 

The  prospective  employer  would  unfold  his  ideals  of 
the  employee.  "  I  want  a  smart,  willing  young  man, 
thoroughly  willing — who  won't  object  to  take  trouble.  I 
don't  want  a  slacker,  the  sort  of  fellow  who  has  to  be 
pushed  up  to  his  work  and  held  there.  I've  got  no  use 
for  him." 

At  the  back  of  Mr.  Polly's  mind,  and  quite  beyond  his 
control,  the  insubordinate  phrasemaker  would  be  prof- 
fering such  combinations  as  "  Chubby  Chops,"  or 
"  Chubby  Charmer,"  as  suitable  for  the  gentleman,  very 
much  as  a  hat  salesman  proffers  hats. 

"  I  don't  think  you'd  find  much  slackness  about  me, 
sir,"  said  Mr.  Polly  brightly,  trying  to  disregard  his 
deeper  self. 

"  I  want  a  young  man  who  means  getting  on." 

"  Exactly,  sir.    Excelsior." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?" 


54  THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.  POLLY 

"  I  said  excelsior,  sir.  It's  a  sort  of  motto  of  mine. 
From  Longfellow.  Would  you  want  me  to  serve 
through  ?  " 

The  chubby  gentleman  explained  and  reverted  to  his 
ideals,  with  a  faint  air  of  suspicion.  "  Do  you  mean  get- 
ting on  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  hope  30,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Get  on  or  get  out,  eh  ?  " 

Mr.  Polly  made  a  rapturous  noise,  nodded  appreciation, 
and  said  indistinctly :  •"  Quite  my  style." 

"  Some  of  my  people  have  been  with  me  twenty  years," 
said  the  employer.  "  My  Manchester  buyer  came  to  me 
as  a  boy  of  twelve.  You're  a  Christian?  " 

"  Church  of  England,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  H'm,"  said  the  employer  a  little  checked.  "  For  good 
all  round  business  work  I  should  have  preferred  a  Bap- 
tist. Still—" 

He  studied  Mr.  Polly's  tie,  which  was  severely  neat 
and  businesslike,  as  became  an  aspiring  outfitter.  Mr. 
Polly's  conception  of  his  own  pose  and  expression  was 
rendered  by  that  uncontrollable  phrasemonger  at  the 
back  as  "  Obsequies  Deference." 

"  I  am  inclined,"  said  the  prospective  employer  in  a 
conclusive  manner,  "  to  look  up  your  reference." 

Mr.  Polly  stood  up  abruptly. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  employer  and  dismissed 
him. 

"  Chump  chops !  How  about  chump  chops  ?  "  said  the 
phrasemonger  with  an  air  of  inspiration. 


CRIBS  •  55 

"  I  hope  then  to  hear  from  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Polly 
in  his  best  salesman  manner. 

"If  everything  is  satisfactory,"  said  the  prospective 
employer. 

II 

A  man  whose  brain  devotes  its  hinterland  to  making 
odd  phrases  and  nicknames  out  of  ill-conceived  words, 
whose  conception  of  life  is  a  lump  of  auriferous  rock  to 
which  all  the  value  is  given  by  rare  veins  of  unbusiness- 
like joy,  who  reads  Boccaccio  and  Rabelais  and  Shakes- 
peare with  gusto,  and  uses  "  Stertoraneous  Shover  "  and 
"  Smart  Junior"  as  terms  of  bitterest  opprobium,  is  not 
likely  to  make  a  great  success  under  modern  business 
conditions.  Mr.  Polly  dreamt  always  of  picturesque  and 
mellow  things,  and  had  an  instinctive  hatred  of  the 
strenuous  life.  He  would  have  resisted  the  spell  of  ex- 
President  Roosevelt,  or  General  Baden  Powell,  or  Mr. 
Peter  Keary,  or  the  late  Dr.  Samuel  Smiles,  quite  easily ; 
and  he  loved  Falstaff  and  Hudibras  and  coarse  laughter, 
and  the  old  England  of  Washington  Irving  and  the  mem- 
ory of  Charles  the  Second's  courtly  days.  His  progress 
was  necessarily  slow.  He  did  not  get  rises ;  he  lost  situa- 
tions; there  was  something  in  his  eye  employers  did  not 
like ;  he  would  have  lost  his  places  oftener  if  he  had  not 
been  at  times  an  exceptionally  brilliant  salesman,  rather 
carefully  neat,  and  a  slow  but  very  fair  window-dresser. 

He  went  from  situation  to  situation,  he  invented  a 
great  wealth  of  nicknames,  he  conceived  enmities  and 


56  THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

made  friends — but  none  so  richly  satisfying  as  Parsons. 
He  was  frequently  but  mildly  and  discursively  in  love, 
and  sometimes  he  thought  of  that  girl  who  had  given 
him  a  yellow-green  apple.  He  had  an  idea,  amounting 
to  a  flattering  certainty,  whose  youthful  freshness  it  was 
had  stirred  her  to  self-forgetfulness.  And  sometimes  he 
thought  of  Foxbourne  sleeping  prosperously  in  the  sun. 
And  he  began  to  have  moods  of  discomfort  and  lassitude 
and  ill-temper  due  to  the  beginnings  of  indigestion. 

Various  forces  and  suggestions  came  into  his  life  and 
swayed  him  for  longer  and  shorter  periods. 

He  went  to  Canterbury  and  came  under  the  influence 
of  Gothic  architecture.  There  was  a  blood  affinity  be- 
tween Mr.  Polly  and  the  Gothic;  in  the  middle  ages  he 
would  no  doubt  have  sat  upon  a  scaffolding  and  carved 
out  penetrating  and  none  too  flattering  portraits  of 
church  dignitaries  upon  the  capitals,  and  when  he 
strolled,  with  his  hands  behind  his  back,  along  the 
cloisters  behind  the  cathedral,  and  looked  at  the  rich 
grass  plot  in  the  centre,  he  had  the  strangest  sense  of 
being  at  home — far  more  than  he  had  ever  been  at  home 
before.  "  Portly  capons,"  he  used  to  murmur  to  himself, 
under  the  impression  that  he  was  naming  a  characteristic 
type  of  medieval  churchman. 

He  liked  to  sit  in  the  nave  during  the  service,  and  look 
through  the  great  gates  at  the  candles  and  choristers,  and 
listen  to  the  organ-sustained  voices,  but  the  transepts  he 
never  penetrated  because  of  the  charge  for  admission. 
The  music  and  the  long  vista  of  the  fretted  roof  filled 


CRIBS  57 

him  with  a  vague  and  mystical  happiness  that  he  had  no 
words,  even  mispronounceable  words,  to  express.  But 
some  of  the  smug  monuments  in  the  aisles  got  a  wreath 
of  epithets ;  "  Metrorious  urnfuls,"  "  funererial  claims," 
"  dejected  angelosity/'  for  example.  He  wandered  about 
the  precincts  and  speculated  about  the  people  who  lived 
in  the  ripe  and  cosy  houses  of  grey  stone  that  cluster 
there  so  comfortably.  Through  green  doors  in  high 
stone  walls  he  caught  glimpses  of  level  lawns  and  blazing 
flower  beds ;  mullioned  windows  revealed  shaded  reading 
lamps  and  disciplined  shelves  of  brown  bound  books. 
Now  and  then  a  dignitary  in  gaiters  would  pass  him, 
"  Portly  capon,"  or  a  drift  of  white-robed  choir  boys 
cross  a  distant  arcade  and  vanish  in  a  doorway,  or  the 
pink  and  cream  of  some  girlish  dress  flit  like  a  butterfly 
across  the  cool  still  spaces  of  the  place.  Particularly  he 
responded  to  the  ruined  arches  of  the  Benedictine's  In- 
firmary and  the  view  of  Bell  Harry  tower  from  the  school 
buildings.  He  was  stirred  to  read  the  Canterbury  Tales, 
but  he  could  not  get  on  with  Chaucer's  old-fashioned 
English;  it  fatigued  his  attention,  and  he  would  have 
given  all  the  story  telling  very  readily  for  a  few  adven- 
tures on  the  road.  He  wanted  these  nice  people  to  live 
more  and  yarn  less.  He  liked  the  Wife  of  Bath  very 
much.  He  would  have  liked  to  have  known  that  woman. 

At  Canterbury,  too,  he  first  to  his  knowledge  saw 
Americans. 

His  shop  did  a  good  class  trade  in  Westgate  Street, 
and  he  would  see  them  go  by  on  the  way  to  stare  at 


58  THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

Chaucer's  "  Chequers,"  and  then  turn  down  Mercery 
Lane  to  Prior  Goldstone's  gate.  It  impressed  him  that 
they  were  always  in  a  kind  of  quiet  hurry,  and  very  de- 
termined and  methodical  people, — much  more  so  than 
any  English  he  knew. 

"  Cultured  Rapacicity,"  he  tried. 

"  Vorocious  Return  to  the  Heritage." 

He  would  expound  them  incidentally  to  his  attendant 
apprentices.  He  had  overheard  a  little  lady  putting  her 
view  to  a  friend  near  the  Christchurch  gate.  The  ac- 
cent and  intonation  had  hung  in  his  memory,  and  he 
would  reproduce  them  more  or  less  accurately.  "  Now 
does  this  Marlowe  monument  really  and  truly  matter?  " 
he  had  heard  the  little  lady  enquire.  "  We've  no  time 
for  side  shows  and  second  rate  stunts,  Mamie.  We  want 
just  the  Big  Simple  Things  of  the  place,  just  the  Broad 
Elemental  Canterbury  praposition.  What  is  it  saying 
to  us?  I  want  to  get  right  hold  of  that,  and  then  have 
tea  in  the  very  room  that  Chaucer  did,  and  hustle  to  get 
that  four-eighteen  train  back  to  London." 

He  would  go  over  these  precious  phrases,  finding  them 
full  of  an  indescribable  flavour.  "Just  the  Broad  Ele- 
mental Canterbury  praposition,"  he  would  repeat.  .  .  . 

He  would  try  to  imagine  Parsons  confronted  with 
Americans.  For  his  own  part  he  knew  himself  to  be 
altogether  inadequate.  .  .  . 

Canterbury  was  the  most  congenial  situation  Mr.  Polly 
ever  found  during  these  wander  years,  albeit  a  very 
desert  so  far  as  companionship  went. 


CRIBS  59 

III 

It  was  after  Canterbury  that  the  universe  became  really 
disagreeable  to  Mr.  Polly.  It  was  brought  home  to  him, 
not  so  much  vividly  as  with  a  harsh  and  ungainly  in- 
sistence, that  he  was  a  failure  in  his  trade.  It  was  not  the 
trade  he  ought  to  have  chosen,  though  what  trade  he 
ought  to  have  chosen  was  by  no  means  clear. 

He  made  great  but  irregular  efforts  and  produced  a 
forced  smartness  that,  like  a  cheap  dye,  refused  to  stand 
sunshine.  He  acquired  a  sort  of  parsimony  also,  in 
which  acquisition  he  was  helped  by  one  or  two  phases  of 
absolute  impecuniosity.  But  he  was  hopeless  in  com- 
petition against  the  naturally  gifted,  the  born  hustlers, 
the  young  men  who  meant  to  get  on. 

He  left  the  Canterbury  place  very  regretfully.  He 
and  another  commercial  gentleman  took  a  boat  one  Sun- 
day afternoon  at  Sturry-on-the-Stour,  when  the  wind 
was  in  the  west,  and  sailed  it  very  happily  eastward  for 
an  hour.  They  had  never  sailed  a  boat  before  and  it 
seemed  simple  and  wonderful.  When  they  turned  they 
found  the  river  too  narrow  for  tacking  and  the  tide  run- 
ning out  like  a  sluice.  They  battled  back  to  Sturry  in 
the  course  of  six  hours  (at  a  shilling  the  first  hour  and 
sixpence  for  each  hour  afterwards)  rowing  a  mile  in  an 
hour  and  a  half  or  so,  until  the  turn  of  the  tide  came  to 
help  them,  and  then  they  had  a  night  walk  to  Canter- 
bury, and  found  themselves  remorselessly  locked 
out. 


60  THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

The  Canterbury  employer  was  an  amiable,  religious- 
spirited  man  and  he  would  probably  not  have  dismissed 
Mr.  Polly  if  that  unfortunate  tendency  to  phrase  things 
had  not  shocked  him.  "  A  Tide's  a  Tide,  Sir,"  said  Mr. 
Polly,  feeling  that  things  were  not  so  bad.  "  I've  no 
lune-attic  power  to  alter  that." 

It  proved  impossible  to  explain  to  the  Canterbury  em- 
ployer that  this  was  not  a  highly  disrespectful  and  blas- 
phemous remark. 

"  And  besides,  what  good  are  you  to  me  this  morning, 
do  you  think?"  said  the  Canterbury  employer,  "with 
your  arms  pulled  out  of  their  sockets  ?  " 

So  Mr.  Polly  resumed  his  observations  in  the  Wood 
Street  warehouses  once  more,  and  had  some  dismal  times. 
The  shoal  of  fish  waiting  for  the  crumbs  of  employment 
seemed  larger  than  ever. 

He  took  counsel  with  himself.  Should  he  "  chuck  " 
the  outfitting?  It  wasn't  any  good  for  him  now,  and 
presently  when  he  was  older  and  his  youthful  smartness 
had  passed  into  the  dulness  of  middle  age  it  would  be 
worse.  What  else  could  he  do? 

He  could  think  of  nothing.  He  went  one  night  to  a 
music  hall  and  developed  a  vague  idea  of  a  comic  per- 
formance; the  comic  men  seemed  violent  rowdies  and 
not  at  all  funny ;  but  when  he  thought  of  the  great  pit  of 
the  audience  yawning  before  him  he  realised  that  his  was 
an  altogether  too  delicate  talent  for  such  a  use.  He  was 
impressed  by  the  charm  of  selling  vegetables  by  auction  in 
one  of  those  open  shops  near  London  Bridge,  but  ad- 


CRIBS  61 

mitted  upon  reflection  his  general  want  of  technical 
knowledge.  He  made  some  enquiries  about  emigration, 
but  none  of  the  colonies  were  in  want  of  shop  assistants 
without  capital.  He  kept  up  his  attendance  in  Wood 
Street. 

He  subdued  his  ideal  of  salary  by  the  sum  of  five 
pounds  a  year,  and  was  taken  at  that  into  a  driving  es- 
tablishment in  Clapham,  which  dealt  chiefly  in  ready- 
made  suits,  fed  its  assistants  in  an  underground  dining- 
room  and  kept  them  until  twelve  on  Saturdays.  He 
found  it  hard  to  be  cheerful  there.  His  fits  of  indiges- 
tion became  worse,  and  he  began  to  lie  awake  at  night 
and  think.  Sunshine  and  laughter  seemed  things  lost  for 
ever;  picnics  and  shouting  in  the  moonlight. 

The  chief  shopwalker  took  a  dislike  to  him  and  nagged 
him.  "Nar  then  Polly!"  "Look  alive  Polly!"  be- 
came the  burthen  of  his  days.  "  As  smart  a  chap  as  you 
could  have,"  said  the  chief  shopwalker,  "but  no  Zest. 
No  Zest!  No  Vim!  What's  the  matter  with  you?  " 

During  his  night  vigils  Mr.  Polly  had  a  feeling 

A  young  rabbit  must  have  very  much  the  feeling,  when 
after  a  youth  of  gambolling  in  sunny  woods  and  furtive 
jolly  raids  upon  the  growing  wheat  and  exciting  trium- 
phant bolts  before  ineffectual  casual  dogs,  it  finds  itself 
at  last  for  a  long  night  of  floundering  effort  and  per- 
plexity, in  a  net — for  the  rest  of  its  life. 

He  could  not  grasp  what  was  wrong  with  him.  He 
made  enormous  efforts  to  diagnose  his  case.  Was  he 
really  just  a  "  lazy  slacker  "  who  ought  to  "  buck  up  "  ? 


62  THE   HISTORY   OF   MR.   POLLY 

He  couldn't  find  it  in  him  to  believe  it.  He  blamed  his 
father  a  good  deal — it  is  what  fathers  are  for — in  put- 
ting him  to  a  trade  he  wasn't  happy  to  follow,  but  he 
found  it  impossible  to  say  what  he  ought  to  have  fol- 
lowed. He  felt  there  had  been  something  stupid  about  his 
school,  but  just  where  that  came  in  he  couldn't  say.  He 
made  some  perfectly  sincere  efforts  to  "  buck  up  "  and 
"  shove  "  ruthlessly.  But  that  was  infernal — impossible. 
He  had  to  admit  himself  miserable  with  all  the  misery  of 
a  social  misfit,  and  with  no  clear  prospect  of  more  than 
the  most  incidental  happiness  ahead  of  him.  And  for  all 
his  attempts  at  self-reproach  or  self-discipline  he  felt  at 
bottom  that  he  wasn't  at  fault. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  all  the  elements  of  his  troubles  had 
been  adequately  diagnosed  by  a  certain  high-browed, 
spectacled  gentleman  living  at  Highbury,  wearing  a  gold 
pince-nez,  and  writing  for  the  most  part  in  the  beautiful 
library  of  the  Reform  Club.  This  gentleman  did  not 
know  Mr.  Polly  personally,  but  he  had  dealt  with  him 
generally  as  "  one  of  those  ill-adjusted  units  that  abound 
in  a  society  that  has  failed  to  develop  a  collective  intelli- 
gence and  a  collective  will  for  order,  commensurate  with 
its  complexities." 

But  phrases  of  that  sort  had  no  appeal  for  Mr.  Polly. 


MR.   POLLY  AN   ORPHAN 


THEN  a  great  change  was  brought  about  in  the 
life  of  Mr.  Polly  by  the  death  of  his  father. 
His  father  had  died  suddenly — the  local  practi- 
tioner still  clung  to  his  theory  that  it  was  imagination  he 
suffered  from,  but  compromised  in  the  certificate  with  the 
appendicitis  that  was  then  so  fashionable — and  Mr.  Polly 
found  himself  heir  to  a  debateable  number  of  pieces  of 
furniture  in  the  house  of  his  cousin  near  Easewood 
Junction,  a  family  Bible,  an  engraved  portrait  of  Gari- 
baldi and  a  bust  of  Mr.  Gladstone,  an  invalid  gold  watch, 
a  gold  locket  formerly  belonging  to  his  mother,  some 
minor  jewelry  and  bric-a-brac,  a  quantity  of  nearly 
valueless  old  clothes  and  an  insurance  policy  and  money 
in  the  bank  amounting  altogether  to  the  sum  of  three 
hundred  and  ninety-five  pounds. 

Mr.  Polly  had  always  regarded  his  father  as  an  im- 
mortal, as  an  eternal  fact,  and  his  father  being  of  a  re- 
served nature  in  his  declining  years  had  said  nothing 
about  the  insurance  policy.  Both  wealth  and  bereave- 
ment therefore  took  Mr.  Polly  by  surprise  and  found  him 
a  little  inadequate.  His  mother's  death  had  been  a 

65 


66  THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

childish  grief  and  long  forgotten,  and  the  strongest  af- 
fection in  his  life  had  been  for  Parsons.  An  only  child 
of  sociable  tendencies  necessarily  turns  his  back  a  good 
deal  upon  home,  and  the  aunt  who  had  succeeded  his 
mother  was  an  economist  and  furniture  polisher,  a 
knuckle  rapper  and  sharp  silencer,  no  friend  for  a  slov- 
enly little  boy.  He  had  loved  other  little  boys  and  girls 
transitorily,  none  had  been  frequent  and  familiar  enough 
to  strike  deep  roots  in  his  heart,  and  he  had  grown  up 
with  a  tattered  and  dissipated  affectionateness  that  was 
becoming  wildly  shy.  His  father  had  always  been  a 
stranger,  an  irritable  stranger  with  exceptional  powers  of 
intervention  and  comment,  and  an  air  of  being  disap- 
pointed about  his  offspring.  It  was  shocking  to  lose  him ; 
it  was  like  an  unexpected  hole  in  the  universe,  and  the 
writing  of  "  Death  "  upon  the  sky,  but  it  did  not  tear 
Mr.  Polly's  heartstrings  at  first  so  much  as  rouse  him  to 
a  pitch  of  vivid  attention. 

He  came  down  to  the  cottage  at  Easewood  in  response 
to  an  urgent  telegram,  and  found  his  father  already 
dead.  His  cousin  Johnson  received  him  with  much  sol- 
emnity and  ushered  him  upstairs,  to  look  at  a  stiff, 
straight,  shrouded  form,  with  a  face  unwontedly  quiet 
and,  as  it  seemed,  with  its  pinched  nostrils,  scornful. 

"  Looks  peaceful,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  disregarding  the 
scorn  to  the  best  of  his  ability. 

"  It  was  a  merciful  relief,"  said  Mr.  Johnson. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Second Second  Departed  I've  ever  seen.     Not 


MR.   POLLY   'AN   ORPHAN  67 

counting  mummies,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  feeling  it  necessary 
to  say  something. 

"  We  did  all  we  could." 

"  No  doubt  of  it,  O'  Man,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

A  second  long  pause  followed,  and  then,  much  to 
Mr.  Polly's  great  relief,  Johnson  moved  towards  the 
door. 

Afterwards  Mr.  Polly  went  for  a  solitary  walk  in  the 
evening  light,  and  as  he  walked,  suddenly  his  dead  father 
became  real  to  him.  He  thought  of  things  far  away 
down  the  perspective  of  memory,  of  jolly  moments  when 
his  father  had  skylarked  with  a  wildly  excited  little  boy, 
of  a  certain  annual  visit  to  the  Crystal  Palace  pantomime, 
full  of  trivial  glittering  incidents  and  wonders,  of  his 
father's  dread  back  while  customers  were  in  the  old, 
minutely  known  shop.  It  is  curious  that  the  memory  which 
seemed  to  link  him  nearest  to  the  dead  man  was  the 
memory  of  a  fit  of  passion.  His  father  had  wanted  to 
get  a  small  sofa  up  the  narrow  winding  staircase  from 
the  little  room  behind  the  shop  to  the  bedroom  above,  and 
it  had  jammed.  For  a  time  his  father  had  coaxed,  and 
then  groaned  like  a  soul  in  torment  and  given  way  to 
blind  fury,  had  sworn,  kicked  and  struck  at  the  offending 
piece  of  furniture  and  finally  wrenched  it  upstairs,  with 
considerable  incidental  damage  to  lath  and  plaster  and 
one  of  the  castors.  That  moment  when  self-control  was 
altogether  torn  aside,  the  shocked  discovery  of  his 
father's  perfect  humanity,  had  left  a  singular  impression 
on  Mr.  Polly's  queer  mind.  It  was  as  if  something  ex- 


68  THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

travagantly  vital  had  come  out  of  his  father  and  laid  a 
warmly  passionate  hand  upon  his  heart.  He  remembered 
that  now  very  vividly,  and  it  became  a  clue  to  endless 
other  memories  that  had  else  been  dispersed  and  confus- 
ing. 

A  weakly  wilful  being  struggling  to  get  obdurate 
things  round  impossible  corners — in  that  symbol  Mr. 
Polly  could  recognise  himself  and  all  the  trouble  of 
humanity. 

He  hadn't  had  a  particularly  good  time,  poor  old  chap, 
and  now  it  was  all  over.  Finished.  .  .  . 

Johnson  was  the  sort  of  man  who  derives  great  satis- 
faction from  a  funeral,  a  melancholy,  serious,  practical- 
minded  man  of  five  and  thirty,  with  great  powers  of  ad- 
vice. He  was  the  up-line  ticket  clerk  at  Easewood  Junc- 
tion, and  felt  the  responsibilities  of  his  position.  He  was 
naturally  thoughtful  and  reserved,  and  greatly  sustained 
in  that  by  an  innate  rectitude  of  body  and  an  overhanging 
and  forward  inclination  of  the  upper  part  of  his  face  and 
head.  He  was  pale  but  freckled,  and  his  dark  grey  eyes 
were  deeply  set.  His  lightest  interest  was  cricket,  but 
he  did  not  take  that  lightly.  His  chief  holiday  was  to  go 
to  a  cricket  match,  which  he  did  as  if  he  was  going  to 
church,  and  he  watched  critically,  applauded  sparingly, 
and  was  darkly  offended  by  any  unorthodox  play.  His 
convictions  upon  all  subjects  were  taciturnly  inflexible. 
He  was  an  obstinate  player  of  draughts  and  chess,  and 
an  earnest  and  persistent  reader  of  the  British  Weekly. 
'His  wife  was  a  pink,  short,  wilfully  smiling,  managing, 


MR.  POLLY  AN   ORPHAN  69 

ingratiating,  talkative  woman,  who  was  determined  to 
be  pleasant,  and  take  a  bright  hopeful  view  of  every- 
thing, even  when  it  was  not  really  bright  and  hopeful. 
She  had  large  blue  expressive  eyes  and  a  round  face, 
and  she  always  spoke  of  her  husband  as  Harold.  She 
addressed  sympathetic  and  considerate  remarks  about  the 
deceased  to  Mr.  Polly  in  notes  of  brisk  encouragement. 
"  He  was  really  quite  cheerful  at  the  end,"  she  said  sev- 
eral times,  with  congratulatory  gusto,  "quite  cheer- 
ful." 

She  made  dying  seem  almost  agreeable. 

Both  these  people  were  resolved  to  treat  Mr.  Polly 
very  well,  and  to  help  his  exceptional  incompetence  in 
every  possible  way,  and  after  a  simple  supper  of  ham  and 
bread  and  cheese  and  pickles  and  cold  apple  tart  and 
small  beer  had  been  cleared  away,  they  put  him  into  the 
armchair  almost  as  though  he  was  an  invalid,  and  sat  on 
chairs  that  made  them  look  down  on  him,  and  opened  a 
directive  discussion  of  the  arrangements  for  the  funeral. 
After  all  a  funeral  is  a  distinct  social  opportunity,  and 
rare  when  you  have  no  family  and  few  relations,  and  they 
did  not  want  to  see  it  spoilt  and  wasted. 

"  You'll  have  a  hearse  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson. 
"  Not  one  of  them  combinations  with  the  driver  sitting 
on  the  coffin.  Disrespectful  I  think  they  are.  I  can't 
fancy  how  people  can  bring  themselves  to  be  buried  in 
combinations."  She  flattened  her  voice  in  a  manner  she 
used  to  intimate  aesthetic  feeling.  "  I  do  like  them  glass 
hearses,"  she  said.  "  So  refined  and  nice  they  are." 


70  THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

"  Podger's  hearse  you'll  have,"  said  Johnson  con- 
clusively. "  It's  the  best  in  Easewood." 

"  Everything  that's  right  and  proper,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Podger's  ready  to  come  and  measure  at  any  time," 
said  Johnson. 

"  Then  you'll  want  a  mourner's  carriage  or  two,  ac- 
cording as  to  whom  you're  going  to  invite,"  said  Mr. 
Johnson. 

"  Didn't  think  of  inviting  any  one,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh !  you'll  have  to  ask  a  few  friends,"  said  Mr.  John- 
son. "  You  can't  let  your  father  go  to  his  grave  without 
asking  a  few  friends." 

"  Funerial  baked  meats  like,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Not  baked,  but  of  course  you'll  have  to  give  them 
something.  Ham  and  chicken's  very  suitable.  You  don't 
want  a  lot  of  cooking  with  the  ceremony  coming  into  the 
middle  of  it.  I  wonder  who  Alfred  ought  to  invite, 
Harold.  Just  the  immediate  relations;  one  doesn't  want 
a  great  crowd  of  people  and  one  doesn't  want  not  to 
show  respect." 

"  But  he  hated  our  relations — most  of  them." 

"  He's  not  hating  them  nozv,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson,  "  you 
may  be  sure  of  that.  It's  just  because  of  that  I  think 
they  ought  to  come — all  of  them — even  your  Aunt  Mil- 
dred." 

"  Bit  vulturial,  isn't  it?"  said  Mr.  Polly  unheeded. 

"  Wouldn't  be  more  than  twelve  or  thirteen  people  if 
they  all  came,"  said  Mr.  Johnson. 

"  We  could  have  everything  put  out  ready  in  the  back 


MR.   POLLY  AN   ORPHAN  71 

room  and  the  gloves  and  whiskey  in  the  front  room,  and 
while  we  were  all  at  the  ceremony,  Bessie  could  bring  it 
all  into  the  front  room  on  a  tray  and  put  it  out  nice  and 
proper.  There'd  have  to  be  whiskey  and  sherry  or  port 
for  the  ladies.  .  .  ." 

"  Where'li  you  get  your  mourning?  "  asked  Johnson 
abruptly. 

Mr.  Polly  had  not  yet  considered  this  by-product  of 
sorrow.  "  Haven't  thought  of  it  yet,  O'  Man." 

A  disagreeable  feeling  spread  over  his  body  as  though 
he  was  blackening  as  he  sat.  He  hated  black  gar- 
ments. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  have  mourning,"  he  said. 

"  Well!"  said  Johnson  with  a  solemn  smile. 

"  Got  to  see  it  through,"  said  Mr.  Polly  indistinctly. 

"  If  I  were  you,"  said  Johnson,  "  I  should  get  ready^ 
made  trousers.  That's  all  you  really  want.  And  a  black 
satin  tie  and  a  top  hat  with  a  deep  mourning  band.  And 
gloves." 

"  Jet  cuff  links  he  ought  to  have — as  chief  mourner," 
said  Mrs.  Johnson. 

"  Not  obligatory,"  said  Johnson. 

"  It  shows  respect,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson. 

"  It  shows  respect  of  course,"  said  Johnson. 

And  then  Mrs.  Johnson  went  on  with  the  utmost  gusto 
to  the  details  of  the  "  casket,"  while  Mr.  Polly  sat  more 
and  more  deeply  and  droopingly  into  the  armchair,  as- 
senting with  a  note  of  protest  to  all  they  said.  After  he 
had  retired  for  the  night  he  remained  for  a  long  time 


72  THE  HISTORY.   OF,  MR.  POLLY 

perched  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa  which  was  his  bed,  star- 
ing at  the  prospect  before  him.  "  Chasing  the  O'  Man 
about  up  to  the  last,"  he  said. 

He  hated  the  thought  and  elaboration  of  death  as  a 
healthy  animal  must  hate  it.  His  mind  struggled  with 
unwonted  social  problems. 

"  Got  to  put  'em  away  somehow,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr. 
Polly, 

"  Wish  I'd  looked  him  up  a  bit  more  while  he  was 
alive,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

II 

Bereavement  came  to  Mr.  Polly  before  the  realisation 
of  opulence  and  its  anxieties  and  responsibilities.  That 
only  dawned  upon  him  on  the  morrow — which  chanced 
to  be  Sunday — as  he  walked  with  Johnson  before  church 
time  about  the  tangle  of  struggling  building  enterprise 
that  constituted  the  rising  urban  district  of  Easewood. 
Johnson  was  off  duty  that  morning,  and  devoted  the  time 
very  generously  to  the  admonitory  discussion  of  Mr. 
Polly's  worldly  outlook. 

"  Don't  seem  to  get  the  hang  of  the  business  some- 
how," said  Mr.  Polly.  "  Too  much  blooming  humbug 
in  it  for  my  way  of  thinking." 

"  If  I  were  you,"  said  Mr.  Johnson,  "  I  should  push 
for  a  first-class  place  in  London — take  almost  nothing 
and  live  on  my  reserves.  That's  what  I  should  do." 

"  Come  the  Heavy,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Get  a  better  class  reference." 


MR.   POLLY   AN   ORPHAN  73 

There  was  a  pause.  "  Think  of  investing  your 
money?  "  asked  Johnson. 

"  Hardly  got  used  to  the  idea  of  having  it  yet,  O' 
Man." 

"  You'll  have  to  do  something  faith  it.  Give  you  nearly 
twenty  pounds  a  year  if  you  invest  it  properly." 

"Haven't  seen  it  yet  in  that  light,"  said  Mr.  Polly 
defensively. 

"There's  no  end  of  things  you  could  put  it  into." 

"  It's  getting  it  out  again  I  shouldn't  feel  sure  of.  I'm 
no  sort  of  Fiancianier.  Sooner  back  horses." 

"  I  wouldn't  do  that  if  I  were  you." 

"  Not  my  style,  O'  Man." 

"  It's  a  nest  egg,"  said  Johnson. 

Mr.  Polly  made  an  indeterminate  noise. 

"  There's  building  societies,"  Johnson  threw  out  in  a 
speculative  tone.  Mr.  Polly,  with  detached  brevity,  ad- 
mitted there  were. 

"  You  might  lend  it  on  mortgage,"  said  Johnson. 
"  Very  safe  form  of  investment." 

"  Shan't  think  anything  about  it — not  till  the  O'  Man's 
underground,"  said  Mr.  Polly  with  an  inspiration. 

They  turned  a  corner  that  led  towards  the  junction. 

"  Might  do  worse,"  said  Johnson,  "  than  put  it  into  a 
small  shop." 

At  the  moment  this  remark  made  very  little  appeal  to 
Mr.  Polly.  But  afterwards  it  developed.  It  fell  into 
his  mind  like  some  small  obscure  seed,  and  germinated. 

"  These  shops  aren't  in  a  bad  position,"  said  Johnson. 


74  THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

The  row  he  referred  to  gaped  in  the  late  painful  stage 
in  building  before  the  healing  touch  of  the  plasterer 
assuages  the  roughness  of  the  brickwork.  The  space 
for  the  shop  yawned  an  oblong  gap  below,  framed  above 
by  an  iron  girder ;  "  windows  and  fittings  to  suit  tenant," 
a  board  at  the  end  of  the  row  promised;  and  behind 
was  the  door  space  and  a  glimpse  of  stairs  going  up  to 
the  living  rooms  above.  "  Not  a  bad  position,"  said 
Johnson,  and  led  the  way  into  the  establishment.  "  Room 
for  fixtures  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  blank  wall. 

The  two  men  went  upstairs  to  the  little  sitting-room  or 
best  bedroom  (it  would  have  to  be)  above  the  shop. 
Then  they  descended  to  the  kitchen  below. 

"  Rooms  in  a  new  house  always  look  a  bit  small," 
said  Johnson. 

They  came  out  of  the  house  again  by  the  prospective 
back  door,  and  picked  their  way  through  builder's  litter 
across  the  yard  space  to  the  road  again.  They  drew 
nearer  the  junction  to  where  a  pavement  and  shops  al- 
ready open  and  active  formed  the  commercial  centre 
of  Easewood.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  way  the  side 
door  of  a  flourishing  little  establishment  opened,  and  a 
man  and  his  wife  and  a  little  boy  in  a  sailor  suit  came 
into  the  street.  The  wife  was  a  pretty  woman  in 
brown  with  a  floriferous  straw  hat,  and  the  group  was 
altogether  very  Sundayfied  and  shiny  and  spick  and 
span.  The  shop  itself  had  a  large  plate-glass  window 
whose  contents  were  now  veiled  by  a  buff  blind  on  which 
was  inscribed  in  scrolly  letters :  "  Rymer,  Pork  Butcher 


MR.   POLLY   AN   ORPHAN  75 

and  Provision  Merchant,"  and  then  with  voluptu- 
ous elaboration :  "  The  World-Famed  Easevvood  Sau- 
sage." 

Greetings  were  exchanged  between  Mr.  Johnson  and 
this  distinguished  comestible. 

"Off  to  church  already?"  said  Johnson. 

"  Walking  across  the  fields  to  Little  Dorington,"  said 
Mr.  Rymer. 

"  Very  pleasant  walk,"  said  Johnson. 

"  Very,"  said  Mr.  Rymer. 

"  Hope  you'll  enjoy  it,"  said  Mr.  Johnson. 

"  That  chap's  done  well,"  said  Johnson  sotto  voce  as 
they  went  on.  "  Came  here  with  nothing — practically, 
four  years  ago.  And  as  thin  as  a  lath.  Look  at  him 
now !  " 

"  He's  worked  hard  of  course,"  said  Johnson,  improv- 
ing the  occasion. 

Thought  fell  between  the  cousins  for  a  space. 

"  Some  men  can  do  one  thing,"  said  Johnson,  "  and1 
some  another.  .  .  .  For  a  man  who  sticks  to  it 
there's  a  lot  to  be  done  in  a  shop." 

Ill 

All  the  preparations  for  the  funeral  ran  easily  and 
happily  under  Mrs.  Johnson's  skilful  hands.  On  the 
eve  of  the  sad  event  she  produced  a  reserve  of  black 
sateen,  the  kitchen  steps  and  a  box  of  tintacks,  and 
decorated  the  house  with  festoons  and  bows  of  black  in 


76  THE  HISTORY.   OF.  MR.   POLLY. 

the  best  possible  taste.  She  tied  up  the  knocker  with 
black  crape,  and  put  a  large  bow  over  the  corner  of  the 
steel  engraving  of  Garibaldi,  and  swathed  the  bust  of 
Mr.  Gladstone,  that  had  belonged  to  the  deceased,  with 
inky  swathings.  She  turned  the  two  vases  that  had  views 
of  Tivoli  and  the  Bay  of  Naples  round,  so  that  these 
rather  brilliant  landscapes  were  hidden  and  only  the 
plain  blue  enamel  showed,  and  she  anticipated  the  long- 
contemplated  purchase  of  a  tablecloth  for  the  front  room, 
and  substituted  a  violet  purple  cover  for  the  now  very 
worn  and  faded  raptures  and  roses  in  plushette  that  had 
hitherto  done  duty  there.  Everything  that  loving  con- 
sideration could  do  to  impart  a  dignified  solemnity  to  her 
little  home  was  done. 

She  had  released  Mr.  Polly  from  the  irksome  duty  of 
issuing  invitations,  and  as  the  moments  of  assembly  drew 
near  she  sent  him  and  Mr.  Johnson  out  into  the  narrow 
long  strip  of  garden  at  the  back  of  the  house,  to  be  free 
to  put  a  finishing  touch  or  so  to  her  preparations.  She 
sent  them  out  together  because  she  had  a  queer  little 
persuasion  at  the  back  of  her  mind  that  Mr.  Polly  wanted 
to  bolt  from  his  sacred  duties,  and  there  was  no  way  out 
of  the  garden  except  through  the  house. 

Mr.  Johnson  was  a  steady,  successful  gardener,  and 
particularly  good  with  celery  and  peas.  He  walked 
slowly  along  the  narrow  path  down  the  centre  pointing 
out  to  Mr.  Polly  a  number  of  interesting  points  in  the 
management  of  peas,  wrinkles  neatly  applied  and  diffi- 
culties wisely  overcome,  and  all  that  he  did  for  the 


MR.   POLLY  AN   ORPHAN  77 

comfort  and  propitiation  of  that  fitful  but  rewarding 
vegetable.  Presently  a  sound  of  nervous  laughter  and 
raised  voices  from  the  house  proclaimed  the  arrival  of 
the  earlier  guests,  and  the  worst  of  that  anticipatory  ten- 
sion was  over. 

When  Mr.  Polly  re-entered  the  house  he  found  three 
entirely  strange  young  women  with  pink  faces,  demon- 
strative manners  and  emphatic  mourning,  engaged  in  an 
incoherent  conversation  with  Mrs.  Johnson.  All  three 
kissed  him  with  great  gusto  after  the  ancient  English 
fashion.  "  These  are  your  cousins  Larkins,"  said  Mrs. 
Johnson;  "that's  Annie  (unexpected  hug  and  smack), 
that's  Miriam  (resolute  hug  and  smack),  and  that's  Min- 
nie (prolonged  hug  and  smack). 

"  Right-O,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  emerging  a  little  crumpled 
and  breathless  from  this  hearty  introduction.  "  I  see." 

"  Here's  Aunt  Larkins,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson,  as  an 
elderly  and  stouter  edition  of  the  three  young  women 
appeared  in  the  doorway. 

Mr.  Polly  backed  rather  faint-heartedly,  but  Aunt  Lar- 
kins was  not  to  be  denied.  Having  hugged  and  kissed 
her  nephew  resoundingly  she  gripped  him  by  the  wrists 
and  scanned  his  features.  She  had  a  round,  sentimental, 
freckled  face.  "  I  should  'ave  known  'im  anywhere," 
she  said  with  fervour. 

"  Hark  at  mother !  "  said  the  cousin  called  Annie. 
"  Why,  she's  never  set  eyes  on  him  before !  " 

"  I  should  'ave  known  'im  anywhere,"  said  Mrs.  Lar- 
kins, "  for  Lizzie's  child.  You've  got  her  eyes !  It's 


78  THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

a  Resemblance !  And  as  for  never  seeing  'im — I've  dan- 
dled him,  Miss  Imperence.  I've  dandled  him." 

"  You  couldn't  dandle  him  now,  Ma !  "  Miss  Annie 
remarked  with  a  shriek  of  laughter. 

All  the  sisters  laughed  at  that  "  The  things  you 
say,  Annie ! "  said  Miriam,  and  for  a  time  the  room  was 
full  of  mirth. 

Mr.  Polly  felt  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  say  something. 
"My  dandling  days  are  over,"  he  said. 

The  reception  of  this  remark  would  have  convinced  a 
far  more  modest  character  than  Mr.  Polly  that  it  was 
extremely  witty. 

Mr.  Polly  followed  it  up  by  another  one  almost  equally 
good.  "  My  turn  to  dandle,"  he  said,  with  a  sly  look  at 
his  aunt,  and  convulsed  everyone. 

"  Not  me,"  said  Mrs.  Larkins,  taking  his  point,  "  thank 
you,"  and  achieved  a  climax. 

It  was  queer,  but  they  seemed  to  be  easy  people  to  get 
on  with  anyhow.  They  were  still  picking  little  ripples 
and  giggles  of  mirth  from  the  idea  of  Mr.  Polly  dandling 
Aunt  Larkins  when  Mr.  Johnson,  who  had  answered 
the  door,  ushered  in  a  stooping  figure,  who  was  at  once 
hailed  by  Mrs.  Johnson  as  "  Why !  Uncle  Pentstemon !  " 
Uncle  Pentstemon  was  rather  a  shock.  His  was  an  aged 
rather  than  venerable  figure;  Time  had  removed  the 
hair  from  the  top  of  his  head  and  distributed  a  small 
dividend  of  the  plunder  in  little  bunches  carelessly  and 
impartially  over  the  rest  of  his  features ;  he  was  dressed 
in  a  very  big  old  frock  coat  and  a  long  cylindrical  top 


MR.   POLLY   AN   ORPHAN  79 

hat,  which  he  had  kept  on ;  he  was  very  much  bent,  and 
he  carried  a  rush  basket  from  which  protruded  coy  inti- 
mations of  the  lettuces  and  onions  he  had  brought  to 
grace  the  occasion.  He  hobbled  into  the  room,  resisting 
the  efforts  of  Johnson  to  divest  him  of  his  various  encum- 
brances, halted  and  surveyed  the  company  with  an  ex- 
pression of  profound  hostility,  breathing  hard.  Recog- 
nition quickened  in  his  eyes. 

"  You  here,"  he  said  to  Aunt  Larkins  and  then ;  "  You 
would  be.  ...  These  your  gals  ?  " 

"  They  are,"  said  Aunt  Larkins,  "  and  better  gals " 

"  That  Annie  ?  "  asked  Uncle  Pentstemon,  pointing  a 
horny  thumb-nail. 

"  Fancy  your  remembering  her  name ! " 
"  She  mucked  up  my  mushroom  bed,  the  baggage ! " 
said  Uncle  Pentstemon  ungenially,  "  and  I  give  it  to  her 
to  rights.  Trounced  her  I  did — fairly.  /  remember 
her.  Here's  some  green  stuff  for  you,  Grace.  Fresh 
it  is  and  wholesome.  I  shall  be  wanting  the  basket  back 
and  mind  you  let  me  have  it.  ...  Have  you  nailed 
him  down  yet  ?  You  always  was  a  bit  in  front  of  what 
was  needful." 

His  attention  was  drawn  inward  by  a  troublesome 
tooth,  and  he  sucked  at  it  spitefully.  There  was  some- 
thing potent  about  this  old  man  that  silenced  everyone 
for  a  moment  or  so.  He  seemed  a  fragment  from  the 
ruder  agricultural  past  of  our  race,  like  a  lump  of  soil 
among  things  of  paper.  He  put  his  basket  of  vegetables 
very  deliberately  on  the  new  violet  tablecloth,  removed 


8o  THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

his  hat  carefully  and  dabbled  his  brow,  and  wiped  out 
his  hat  brim  with  a  crimson  and  yellow  pocket  handker- 
chief. 

"  I'm  glad  you  were  able  to  come,  Uncle,"  said  Mrs. 
Johnson. 

"  Oh,  I  came"  said  Uncle  Pentstemon.     "  I  came" 

He  turned  on  Mrs.  Larkins.  "Gals  in  service?"  he 
asked. 

"  They  aren't  and  they  won't  be,"  said  Mrs.  Larkins. 

"  No,"  he  said  with  infinite  meaning,  and  turned  his 
eye  on  Mr.  Polly. 

"  You  Lizzie's  boy?  "  he  said. 

Mr.  Polly  was  spared  much  self-exposition  by  the 
tumult  occasioned  by  further  arrivals. 

"Ah!  here's  May  Punt!"  said  Mrs.  Johnson,  and  a 
small  woman  dressed  in  the  borrowed  mourning  of  a 
large  woman  and  leading  a  very  small  long-haired  ob- 
servant little  boy — it  was  his  first  funeral — appeared, 
closely  followed  by  several  friends  of  Mrs.  Johnson  who 
had  come  to  swell  the  display  of  respect  and  made  only 
vague,  confused  impressions  upon  Mr.  Polly's  mind. 
(Aunt  Mildred,  who  was  an  unexplained  family  scandal, 
had  declined  Mrs.  Johnson's  hospitality.) 

Everybody  was  in  profound  mourning,  of  course, 
mourning  in  the  modern  English  style,  with  the  dyer's 
handiwork  only  too  apparent,  and  hats  and  jackets  of 
the  current  cut.  There  was  very  little  crape,  and  the 
costumes  had  none  of  the  goodness  and  specialisation 
and  genuine  enjoyment  of  mourning  for  mourning's 


MR.   POLLY   'AN   ORPHAN  Si 

sake  that  a  similar  continental  gathering  would  have 
displayed.  Still  that  congestion  of  strangers  in  black 
sufficed  to  stun  and  confuse  Mr.  Polly's  impressionable 
mind.  It  seemed  to  him  much  more  extraordinary  than 
anything  he  had  expected. 

"  Now,  gals,"  said  Mrs.  Larkins,  "  see  if  you  can 
help,"  and  the  three  daughters  became  confusingly  active 
between  the  front  room  and  the  back. 

"  I  hope  everyone'll  take  a  glass  of  sherry  and  a  bis- 
cuit," said  Mrs.  Johnson.  "  We  don't  stand  on  cere- 
mony," and  a  decanter  appeared  in  the  place  of  Uncle 
Pentstemon's  vegetables. 

Uncle  Pentstemon  had  refused  to  be  relieved  of  his 
hat ;  he  sat  stiffly  down  on  a  chair  against  the  wall  with 
that  venerable  headdress  between  his  feet,  watching  the 
approach  of  anyone  jealously.  "  Don't  you  go  squash- 
ing my  hat,"  he  said.  Conversation  became  confused 
and  general.  Uncle  Pentstemon  addressed  himself  to 
Mr.  Polly.  "You're  a  little  chap,"  he  said,  "a  puny 
little  chap.  I  never  did  agree  to  Lizzie  marrying  him, 
but  I  suppose  bygones  must  be  bygones  now.  I  suppose 
they  made  you  a  clerk  or  something." 

"  Outfitter,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  I  remember.  Them  girls  pretend  to  be  dress- 
makers." 

"  They  are  dressmakers,"  said  Airs.  Larkins  across 
the  room. 

"  I  will  take  a  glass  of  sherry.  They  'old  to  it,  you 
see." 


82  THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.  POLLY 

He  took  the  glass  Mrs.  Johnson  handed  him,  and 
poised  it  critically  between  a  horny  finger  and  thumb. 
"  You'll  be  paying  for  this,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Polly. 
"  Here's  to  you.  .  .  .  Don't  you  go  treading  on  my 
hat,  young  woman.  You  brush  your  skirts  against  it 
and  you  take  a  shillin'  off  its  value.  It  ain't  the  sort  of 
'at  you  see  nowadays." 

He  drank  noisily. 

The  sherry  presently  loosened  everybody's  tongue,  and 
the  early  coldness  passed. 

"  There  ought  to  have  been  a  post-mortem"  Polly 
heard  Mrs.  Punt  remarking  to  one  of  Mrs.  Johnson's 
friends,  and  Miriam  and  another  were  lost  in  admiration 
of  Mrs.  Johnson's  decorations.  "  So  very  nice  and  re- 
fined," they  were  both  repeating  at  intervals. 

The  sherry  and  biscuits  were  still  being  discussed  when 
Mr.  Podger,  the  undertaker,  arrived,  a  broad,  cheerfully 
sorrowful,  clean-shaven  little  man,  accompanied  by  a 
melancholy-faced  assistant.  He  conversed  for  a  time 
with  Johnson  in  the  passage  outside;  the  sense  of  his 
business  stilled  the  rising  waves  of  chatter  and  carried 
oft"  everyone's  attention  in  the  wake  of  his  heavy  foot- 
steps to  the  room  above. 

IV 

Things  crowded  upon  Mr.  Polly.  Everyone,  he 
noticed,  took  sherry  with  a  solemn  avidity,  and  a  small 
portion  even  was  administered  sacramentally  to  the  Punt 


MR.   POLLY   AN   ORPHAN  83 

boy.  There  followed  a  distribution  of  black  kid  gloves, 
and  much  trying  on  and  humouring  of  fingers.  "  Good 
gloves,"  said  one  of  Mrs.  Johnson's  friends.  "  There's 
a  little  pair  there  for  Willie,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson  trium- 
phantly. Everyone  seemed  gravely  content  with  the 
amazing  procedure  of  the  occasion.  Presently  Mr.  Pod- 
ger  was  picking  Mr.  Polly  out  as  Chief  Mourner  to  go 
with  Mrs.  Johnson,  Mrs.  Larkins  and  Annie  in  the  first 
mourning  carriage. 

"  Right  O,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  repented  instantly  of 
the  alacrity  of  the  phrase. 

''  There'll  have  to  be  a  walking  party,"  said  Mrs. 
Johnson  cheerfully.  "  There's  only  two  coaches.  I 
daresay  we  can  put  in  six  in  each,  but  that  leaves  three 
over." 

There  was  a  generous  struggle  to  be  pedestrian,  and 
the  two  other  Larkins  girls,  confessing  coyly  to  tight 
new  boots  and  displaying  a  certain  eagerness,  were 
added  to  the  contents  of  the  first  carriage. 

"  It'll  be  a  squeeze,"  said  Annie. 

"I  don't  mind  a  squeeze,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

He  decided  privately  that  the  proper  phrase  for  the 
result  of  that  remark  was  "  Hysterial  catechunations." 

Mr.  Podger  re-entered  the  room  from  a  momentary 
supervision  of  the  bumping  business  that  was  now  pro- 
ceeding down  the  staircase. 

"  Bearing  up,"  he  said  cheerfully,  rubbing  his  hands 
together.  "  Bearing  up  !  " 

That  stuck  very  vividly  in  Mr.  Polly's  mind,  and  so 


84  THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

did  the  close-wedged  drive  to  the  churchyard,  bunched 
in  between  two  young  women  in  confused  dull  and  shiny 
black,  and  the  fact  that  the  wind  was  bleak  and  that 
the  officiating  clergyman  had  a  cold,  and  sniffed  between 
his  sentences.  The  wonder  of  life!  The  wonder  of 
everything!  What  had  he  expected  that  this  should 
all  be  so  astoundingly  different. 

He  found  his  attention  converging  more  and  more 
upon  the  Larkins  cousins.  The  interest  was  reciprocal. 
They  watched  him  with  a  kind  of  suppressed  excitement 
and  became  risible  with  his  every  word  and  gesture. 
He  was  more  and  more  aware  of  their  personal  quality. 
Annie  had  blue  eyes  and  a  red,  attractive  mouth,  a  harsh 
voice  and  a  habit  of  extreme  liveliness  that  even  this 
occasion  could  not  suppress ;  Minnie  was  fond,  extremely 
free  about  the  touching  of  hands  and  suchlike  endear- 
ments; Miriam  was  quieter  and  regarded  him  earnestly. 
Mrs.  Larkins  was  very  happy  in  her  daughters,  and  they 
had  the  naive  affectionateness  of  those  who  see  few  peo- 
ple and  find  a  strange  cousin  a  wonderful  outlet.  Mr. 
Polly  had  never  been  very  much  kissed,  and  it  made  his 
mind  swim.  He  did  not  know  for  the  life  of  him  whether 
he  liked  or  disliked  all  or  any  of  the  Larkins  cousins. 
It  was  rather  attractive  to  make  them  laugh ;  they  laughed 
at  anything. 

There  they  were  tugging  at  his  mind,  and  the  funeral 
tugging  at  his  mind,  too,  and  the  sense  of  himself  as 
Chief  Mourner  in  a  brand  new  silk  hat  with  a  broad 
mourning  band.  He  watched  the  ceremony  and  missed 


MR.   POLLY.  ~AN   ORPHAN  85 

his  responses,  and  strange  feelings  twisted  at  his  heart- 
strings. 

V 

Mr.  Polly  walked  back  to  the  house  because  he  wanted 
to  be  alone.  Miriam  and  Minnie  would  have  accom- 
panied him,  but  finding  Uncle  Pentstemon  beside  the 
Chief  Mourner  they  went  on  in  front. 

"  You're  wise,"  said  Uncle  Pentstemon. 

"  Glad  you  think  so,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  rousing  himself 
to  talk. 

"  I  likes  a  bit  of  walking  before  a  meal,"  said  Uncle 
Pentstemon,  and  made  a  kind  of  large  hiccup.  "  That 
-sherry  rises,"  he  remarked.  "  Grocer's  stuff,  I  expect." 

He  went  on  to  ask  how  much  the  funeral  might  be 
costing,  and  seemed  pleased  to  find  Mr.  Polly  didn't 
know. 

"  In  that  case,"  he  said  impressively,  "  it's  pretty  cer- 
tain to  cost  more'n  you  expect,  my  boy." 

He  meditated  for  a  time.  "  I've  seen  a  mort  of  un- 
dertakers," he  declared;  "a  mort  of  undertakers." 

The  Larkins  girls  attracted  his  attention. 

"  Let's  lodgin's  and  chars,"  he  commented.  "  Least- 
ways she  goes  out  to  cook  dinners.  And  look  at  'em !  " 

"Dressed  up  to  the  nines.  If  it  ain't  borryd  clothes, 
that  is.  And  they  goes  out  to  work  at  a  factory !  " 

"  Did  you  know  my  father  much,  Uncle  Pentstemon?" 
asked  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Couldn't   stand   Lizzie  throwin'   herself   away   like 


86  THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

that,"  said  Uncle  Pentstemon,  and  repeated  his  hiccup 
on  a  larger  scale. 

"  That  weren't  good  sherry,"  said  Uncle  Pentstemon 
with  the  first  note  of  pathos  Mr.  Polly  had  detected  in 
his  quavering  voice. 

The  funeral  in  the  rather  cold  wind  had  proved  won- 
derfully appetising,  and  every  eye  brightened  at  the  sight 
of  the  cold  collation  that  was  now  spread  in  the  front 
room.  Mrs.  Johnson  was  very  brisk,  and  Mr.  Polly, 
when  he  re-entered  the  house  found  everybody  sitting 
down.  "  Come  along,  Alfred,"  cried  the  hostess  cheer- 
fully. "  We  can't  very  well  begin  without  you.  Have 
you  got  the  bottled  beer  ready  to  open,  Betsy?  Uncle, 
you'll  have  a  drop  of  whiskey,  I  expect." 

"  Put  it  where  I  can  mix  for  myself,"  said  Uncle 
Pentstemon,  placing  his  hat  very  carefully  out  of  harm's 
way  on  the  bookcase. 

There  were  two  cold  boiled  chickens,  which  Johnson 
carved  with  great  care  and  justice,  and  a  nice  piece  of 
ham,  some  brawn  and  a  steak  and  kidney  pie,  a  large  bowl 
of  salad  and  several  sorts  of  pickles,  and  afterwards 
came  cold  apple  tart,  jam  roll  and  a  good  piece  of  Stil- 
ton cheese,  lots  of  bottled  beer,  some  lemonade  for  the 
ladies  and  milk  for  Master  Punt;  a  very  bright  and 
satisfying  meal.  Mr.  Polly  found  himself  seated  between 
Mrs.  Punt,  who  was  much  preoccupied  with  Master 
Punt's  table  manners,  and  one  of  Mrs.  Johnson's  school 
friends,  who  was  exchanging  reminiscences  of  school 
days  and  news  of  how  various  common  friends  had 


MR.   POLLY   AN   ORPHAN  87 

changed  and  married  with  Mrs.  Johnson.  Opposite  him 
was  Miriam  and  another  of  the  Johnson  circle,  and  also 
he  had  brawn  to  carve  and  there  was  hardly  room  for 
the  helpful  Betsy  to  pass  behind  his  chair,  so  that  alto- 
gether his  mind  would  have  been  amply  distracted  from 
any  mortuary  breedings,  even  if  a  wordy  warfare  about 
the  education  of  the  modern  young  woman  had  not 
sprung  up  between  Uncle  Pentstemon  and  Mrs.  Larkins 
and  threatened  for  a  time,  in  spite  of  a  word  or  so  in 
season  from  Johnson,  to  wreck  all  the  harmony  of  the 
sad  occasion. 

The  general  effect  was  after  this  fashion: 

First  an  impression  of  Mrs.  Punt  on  the  right  speaking 
in  a  refined  undertone :  "  You  didn't,  I  suppose,  Mr. 
Polly,  think  to  'ave  your  poor  dear  father  post-mor- 
•  temed " 

Lady  on  the  left  side  breaking  in :  "I  was  just  remind- 
ing Grace  of  the  dear  dead  days  beyond  recall " 

Attempted  reply  to  Mrs.  Punt:  "Didn't  think  of  it 
for  a  moment.  Can't  give  you  a  piece  of  this  brawn, 
-can  I?" 

Fragment  from  the  left : "  Grace  and  Beauty  they  used 
to  call  us  and  we  used  to  sit  at  the  same  desk " 

Mrs.  Punt,  breaking  out  suddenly :  "  Don't  swaller 
your  fork,  Willy.  You  see,  Mr.  Polly,  I  used  to  'ave  a 
young  gentleman,  a  medical  student,  lodging  with 
me " 

Voice  from  down  the  table:  "  'Am,  Alfred?  I  didn't 
give  you  very  much." 


88  THE   HISTORY.   OF.  MR.   POLLY 

Bessie  became  evident  at  the  back  of  Mr.  Polly's  chair, 
struggling  wildly  to  get  past.  Mr.  Polly  did  his  best 
to  be  helpful.  "  Can  you  get  past?  Lemme  sit  forward 
a  bit.  Urr-oo!  Right  O." 

Lady  to  the  left  going  on  valiantly  and  speaking  to 
everyone  who  cares  to  listen,  while  Mrs.  Johnson  beams 
beside  her :  "  There  she  used  to  sit  as  bold  as  brass,  and 
the  fun  she  used  to  make  of  things  no  one  could  believe 
. — knowing  her  now.  She  used  to  make  faces  at  the  mis- 
tress through  the " 

Mrs.  Punt  keeping  steadily  on :  "  The  contents  of  the 
stummik  at  any  rate  ought  to  be  examined." 

Voice  of  Mr.  Johnson.  "  Elf  rid,  pass  the  musticf 
down." 

Miriam  leaning  across  the  table :    "  Elfrid !  " 

"  Once  she  got  us  all  kept  in.  The  whole 
school!" 

Miriam,  more  insistently :     "  Elfrid !  " 

Uncle  Pentstemon,  raising  his  voice  defiantly: 
"Trounce  'er  again  I  would  if  she  did  as  much  now. 
That  I  would !  Dratted  mischief !  " 

Miriam,  catching  Mr.  Polly's  eye:  "Elfrid!  This 
lady  knows  Canterbury.  I  been  telling  her  you  been 
there." 

Mr.  Polly :   "  Glad  you  know  it." 

The  lady  shouting:    "  I  like  it." 

Mrs.  Larkins,  raising  her  voice :  "  I  won't  'ave  my 
girls  spoken  of,  not  by  nobody,  old  or  young." 

POP!  imperfectly  located. 


MR.   POLLY   'AN   ORPHAN  89 

Mr.  Johnson  at  large :  "  Ain't  the  beer  up !  It's  the 
'eatecl  room." 

Bessie :  "  Scuse  me,  sir,  passing  so  soon  again,  but " 

Rest  inaudible.  Mr.  Polly,  accommodating  himself: 
"Urr-oo!  Right?  Right  O." 

The  knives  and  forks,  probably  by  some  secret  common 
agreement,  clash  and  clatter  together  and  drown  every 
other  sound. 

"  Nobody  'ad  the  least  idea  'ow  'E  died, — nobody.  .  .  . 
Willie,  don't  golp  so.  You  ain't  in  a  'urry,  are  you? 
You  don't  want  to  ketch  a  train  or  anything, — golping 
like  that !  " 

"  D'you  remember,  Grace,  'ow  one  day  we  'ad  writing 
lesson.  .  .  ." 

"  Nicer  girls  no  one  ever  'ad — though  I  say  it  who 
shouldn't." 

Mrs.  Johnson  in  a  shrill  clear  hospitable  voice :  "  Har- 
old, won't  Mrs.  Larkins  'ave  a  teeny  bit  more  fowl  ?  " 

Mr.  Polly  rising  to  the  situation.  "  Or  some  brawn, 
Mrs.  Larkins?"  Catching  Uncle  Pentstemon's  eye: 
"  Can't  send  you  some  brawn,  sir?  " 

"  Elf  rid ! " 

Loud  hiccup  from  Uncle  Pentstemon,  momentary  con- 
sternation followed  by  giggle  from  Annie. 

The  narration  at  Mr.  Polly's  elbow  pursued  a  quiet 
but  relentless  course.  "  Directly  the  new  doctor  came  in 
he  said :  '  Everything  must  be  took  out  and  put  in. 
spirits — everything.'  " 

Willie, — audible  ingurgitation. 


90  THE   HISTORY   OF   MR.   POLLY 

The  narration  on  the  left  was  flourishing  up  to  a 
climax.  "  Ladies,"  she  sez,  "  dip  their  pens  in  their  ink 
and  keep  their  noses  out  of  it !  " 

"  Elfrid !  " — persuasively. 

"  Certain  people  may  cast  snacks  at  other  people's 
daughters,  never  having  had  any  of  their  own,  though 
two  poor  souls  of  wives  dead  and  buried  through  their 
goings  on " 

Johnson  ruling  the  storm :  "  We  don't  want  old  scores 
dug  up  on  such  a  day  as  this " 

"  Old  scores  you  may  call  them,  but  worth  a  dozen  of 
them  that  put  them  to  their  rest,  poor  dears." 

"  Elfrid !  " — with  a  note  of  remonstrance. 

"  If  you  choke  yourself,  my  lord,  not  another  mouthful 
do  you  'ave.  No  nice  puddin' !  Nothing !  " 

"  And  kept  us  in,  she  did,  every  afternoon  for  a  week !  " 

It  seemed  to  be  the  end,  and  Mr.  Polly  replied  with  an 
air  of  being  profoundly  impressed :  "  Really !  " 

"  Elfrid !  "—a  little  disheartened. 

"  And  then  they  'ad  it !  They  found  he'd  swallowed 
the  very  key  to  unlock  the  drawer " 

"  Then  don't  let  people  go  casting  snacks !  " 

"  Who's  casting  snacks !  " 

"  Elfrid !  This  lady  wants  to  know,  'ave  the  Prossers 
left  Canterbury?" 

"  No  wish  to  make  myself  disagreeable,  not  to  God's 
'umblest  worm " 

"  Alf,  you  aren't  very  busy  with  that  brawn  up  there !  " 

And  so  on  for  the  hour. 


MR.   POLLY   'AN   ORPHAN  91 

The  general  effect  upon  Mr.  Polly  at  the  time  was  at 
once  confusing  and  exhilarating;  but  it  led  him  to  eat 
copiously  and  carelessly,  and  long  before  the  end,  when 
after  an  hour  and  a  quarter  a  movement  took  the  party, 
and  it  pushed  away  its  cheese  plates  and  rose  sighing 
and  stretching  from  the  remains  of  the  repast,  little 
streaks  and  bands  of  dyspeptic  irritation  and  melancholy 
were  darkening  the  serenity  of  his  mind. 

He  stood  between  the  mantel  shelf  and  the  window — 
the  blinds  were  up  now — and  the  Larkins  sisters  clustered 
about  him.  He  battled  with  the  oncoming  depression  and 
forced  himself  to  be  extremely  facetious  about  two 
noticeable  rings  on  Annie's  hand.  "  They  ain't  real," 
said  Annie  coquettishly.  "  Got  'em  out  of  a  prize 
packet." 

"  Prize  packet  in  trousers,  I  expect,"  said  Mr.  Polly, 
and  awakened  inextinguishable  laughter. 

"  Oh !  the  things  you  say ! "  said  Minnie,  slapping  his 
shoulder. 

Suddenly  something  he  had  quite  extraordinarily  for- 
gotten came  into  his  head. 

"  Bless  my  heart ! "  he  cried,  suddenly  serious. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Johnson. 

"  Ought  to  have  gone  back  to  shop — three  days  ago. 
They'll  make  no  end  of  a  row !  " 

"  Lor,  you  are  a  Treat ! "  said  cousin  Annie,  and 
screamed  with  laughter  at  a  delicious  idea.  "  You'll  get 
the  Chuck,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Polly  made  a  convulsing  grimace  at  her. 


92  THE  HISTORY.   OF  MR.   POLLY. 

"  I'll  die !  "  she  said.    "  I  don't  believe  you  care  a  bit !  " 

Feeling  a  little  disorganized  by  her  hilarity  and  a 
shocked  expression  that  had  come  to  the  face  of  cousin 
Miriam,  he  made  some  indistinct  excuse  and  went  out 
through  the  back  room  and  scullery  into  the  little  gar- 
den. The  cool  air  and  a  very  slight  drizzle  of  rain  was 
a  relief — anyhow.  But  the  black  mood  of  the  replete 
dyspeptic  had  come  upon  him.  His  soul  darkened  hope- 
lessly. He  walked  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  down 
the  path  between  the  rows  of  exceptionally  cultured  peas 
and  unreasonably,  overwhelmingly,  he  was  smitten  by 
sorrow  for  his  father.  The  heady  noise  and  muddle  and 
confused  excitement  of  the  feast  passed  from  him  like  a 
curtain  drawn  away.  He  thought  of  that  hot  and  angry 
and  struggling  creature  who  had  tugged  and  sworn  so 
foolishly  at  the  sofa  upon  the  twisted  staircase,  and  who 
was  now  lying  still  and  hidden,  at  the  bottom  of  a 
wall-sided  oblong  pit  beside  the  heaped  gravel  that  would 
presently  cover  him.  The  stillness  of  it !  the  wonder  of 
it!  the  infinite  reproach!  Hatred  for  all  these  people — 
all  of  them — possessed  Mr.  Polly's  soul. 

"Hen-witted  gigglers,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

He  went  down  to  the  fence,  and  stood  with  his  hands 
on  it  staring  away  at  nothing.  He  stayed  there  for  what 
seemed  a  long  time.  From  the  house  came  a  sound  of 
raised  voices  that  subsided,  and  then  Mrs.  Johnson  call- 
ing for  Bessie. 

"  Gowlish  gusto,"  said  Mr.  Polly.     "  Jumping  it  in. 


MR.   POLLY  AN   ORPHAN  93 

Funererial  Games.  Don't  hurt  him  of  course.  Doesn't 
matter  to  him.  .  .  ." 

Nobody  missed  Mr.  Polly  for  a  long  time. 

When  at  last  he  reappeared  among  them  his  eye  was 
almost  grim,  but  nobody  noticed  his  eye.  They  were 
looking  at  watches,  and  Johnson  was  being  omniscient 
about  trains.  They  seemed  to  discover  Mr.  Polly  afresh 
just  at  the  moment  of  parting,  and  said  a  number  of 
more  or  less  appropriate  things.  But  Uncle  Pentstemon 
was  far  too  worried  about  his  rush  basket,  which  had 
been  carelessly  mislaid,  he  seemed  to  think  with  larcen- 
ous intentions,  to  remember  Mr.  Polly  at  all.  Mrs.  John- 
son had  tried  to  fob  him  off  with  a  similar  but  inferior 
basket, — his  own  had  one  handle  mended  with  string 
according  to  a  method  of  peculiar  virtue  and  inimitable 
distinction  known  only  to  himself — and  the  old  gentle- 
man had  taken  her  attempt  as  the  gravest  reflection  upon 
his  years  and  intelligence.  Mr.  Polly  was  left  very 
largely  to  the  Larkins  trio.  Cousin  Minnie  became  shame- 
less and  kept  kissing  him  good-by — and  then  finding 
out  it  wasn't  time  to  go.  Cousin  Miriam  seemed  to 
think  her  silly,  and  caught  Mr.  Polly's  eye  sympathet- 
ically. Cousin  Annie  ceased  to  giggle  and  lapsed  into  a 
nearly  sentimental  state.  She  said  with  real  feeling  that 
she  had  enjoyed  the  funeral  more  than  words  could  tell. 


MR.   POLLY   TAKES  A  VACATION 


CHAPTER   THE   FIFTH 

MR.  POLLY  TAKES  A  VACATION 
I 

'R.  POLLY  returned  to  Clapham  from  the 
funeral  celebration  prepared  for  trouble,  and 
took  his  dismissal  in  a  manly  spirit. 

"  You've  merely  anti-separated  me  by  a  hair,"  he  said 
politely. 

And  he  told  them  in  the  dormitory  that  he  meant  to 
take  a  little  holiday  before  his  next  crib,  though  a  certain 
inherited  reticence  suppressed  the  fact  of  the  legacy. 

"  You'll  do  that  all  right,"  said  Ascough,  the  head  of 
the  boot  shop.  "  It's  quite  the  fashion  just  at  present 
Six  Weeks  in  Wonderful  Wood  Street.  They're  run- 
ning excursions.  .  .  ." 

"  A  little  holiday ; "  that  was  the  form  his  sense  of 
wealth  took  first,  that  it  made  a  little  holiday  possible. 
Holidays  were  his  life,  and  the  rest  merely  adulterated 
living.  And  now  he  might  take  a  little  holiday  and  have 
money  for  railway  fares  and  money  for  meals  and  money 
for  inns.  But — he  wanted  someone  to  take  the  holi- 
day with. 

For  a  time  he  cherished  a  design  of  hunting  up  Par- 

97 


98  THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

sons,  getting  him  to  throw  up  his  situation,  and  going 
with  him  to  Stratford-on-Avon  and  Shrewsbury  and  the 
Welsh  mountains  and  the  Wye  and  a  lot  of  places  like 
that,  for  a  really  gorgeous,  careless,  illimitable  old  holi- 
day of  a  month.  But  alas !  Parsons  had  gone  from  the 
St.  Paul's  Churchyard  outfitter's  long  ago,  and  left  no 
address. 

Mr.  Polly  tried  to  think  he  would  be  almost  as  happy 
wandering  alone,  but  he  knew  better.  He  had  dreamt 
of  casual  encounters  with  delightfully  interesting  peo- 
ple by  the  wayside — even  romantic  encounters.  Such 
things  happened  in  Chaucer  and  "  Bocashiew,"  they  hap- 
pened with  extreme  facility  in  Mr.  Richard  Le  Gallienne's 
very  detrimental  book,  The  Quest  of  the  Golden  Girl, 
which  he  had  read  at  Canterbury,  but  he  had  no  confi- 
dence they  would  happen  in  England — to  him. 

When,  a  month  later,  he.  came  out  of  the  Clapham  side 
door  at  last  into  the  bright  sunshine  of  a  fine  London 
day,  with  a  dazzling  sense  of  limitless  freedom  upon  him, 
he  did  nothing  more  adventurous  than  order  the  cabman 
to  drive  to  Waterloo,  and  there  take  a  ticket  for  Ease- 
wood. 

He  wanted — what  did  he  want  most  in  life?  I  think 
his  distinctive  craving  is  best  expressed  as  fun — fun  in 
companionship.  He  had  already  spent  a  pound  or  two 
upon  three  select  feasts  to  his  fellow  assistants,  sprat 
suppers  they  were,  and  there  had  been  a  great  and  very 
successful  Sunday  pilgrimage  to  Richmond,  by  Wands- 
worth  and  Wimbledon's  open  common,  a  trailing  garru- 


MR.   POLLY    TAKES  A    VACATION        99 

lotis  company  walking  about  a  solemnly  happy  host,  to 
•wonderful  cold  meat  and  salad  at  the  Roebuck,  a  bowl  of 
punch,  punch !  and  a  bill  to  correspond ;  but  now  it  was  a 
week-day,  and  he  went  down  to  Easewood  with  his  bag 
and  portmanteau  in  a  solitary  compartment,  and  looked 
out  of  the  window  upon  a  world  in  which  every  possible 
congenial  seemed  either  toiling  in  a  situation  or  else  look- 
ing for  one  with  a  gnawing  and  hopelessly  preoccupy- 
ing anxiety.  He  stared  out  of  the  window  at  the  ex- 
ploitation roads  of  suburbs,  and  rows  of  houses  all  very 
much  alike,  either  emphatically  and  impatiently  TO  LET 
or  full  of  rather  busy  unsocial  people.  Near  Wimbledon 
he  had  a  glimpse  of  golf  links,  and  saw  two  elderly  gen- 
tlemen who,  had  they  chosen,  might  have  been  gentlemen 
of  grace  and  leisure,  addressing  themselves  to  smite  little 
hunted  white  balls  great  distances  with  the  utmost  bit- 
terness and  dexterity.  Mr.  Polly  could  not  understand 
them. 

Every  road  he  remarked,  as  freshly  as  though  he  had 
never  observed  it  before,  was  bordered  by  inflexible  pal- 
ings or  iron  fences  or  severely  disciplined  hedges.  He 
wondered  if  perhaps  abroad  there  might  be  beautifully 
careless,  unenclosed  high  roads.  Perhaps  after  all  the 
best  way  of  taking  a  holiday  is  to  go  abroad. 

He  was  haunted  by  the  memory  of  what  was  either  a 
half -forgotten  picture  or  a  dream;  a  carriage  was  drawn 
up  by  the  wayside  and  four  beautiful  people,  two  men 
and  two  women  graciously  dressed,  were  dancing  a 
formal  ceremonious  dance  full  of  bows  and  curtseys,  to 


ioo         THE   PIISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

the  music  of  a  wandering  fiddler  they  had  encountered. 
They  had  been  driving  one  way  and  he  walking  another 
— a  happy  encounter  with  this  obvious  result.  They 
might  have  come  straight  out  of  happy  Theleme,  whose 
motto  is :  "  Do  what  thou  wilt."  The  driver  had  taken 
his  two  sleek  horses  out;  they  grazed  unchallenged;  and 
he  sat  on  a  stone  clapping  time  with  his  hands  while  the 
fiddler  played.  The  shade  of  the  trees  did  not  altogether 
shut  out  the  sunshine,  the  grass  in  the  wood  was  lush 
and  full  of  still  daffodils,  the  turf  they  danced  on  was 
starred  with  daisies. 

Mr.  Polly,  dear  heart!  firmly  believed  that  things  like 
that  could  and  did  happen — somewhere.  Only  it  puzzled 
him  that  morning  that  he  never  saw  them  happening. 
Perhaps  they  happened  south  of  Guilford.  Perhaps  they 
happened  in  Italy.  Perhaps  they  ceased  to  happen  a 
hundred  years  ago.  Perhaps  they  happened  just  round 
the  corner — on  weekdays  when  all  good  Mr.  Pollys  are 
safely  shut  up  in  shops.  And  so  dreaming  of  delightful 
impossibilities  until  his  heart  ached  for  them,  he  was 
rattled  along  in  the  suburban  train  to  Johnson's  discreet 
home  and  the  briskly  stimulating  welcome  of  Mrs.  John- 
son. 

II 

Mr.  Polly  translated  his  restless  craving  for  joy  and 
leisure  into  Harold- Johnsonese  by  saying  that  he  meant 
to  look  about  him  for  a  bit  before  going  into  another  situ- 
ation. It  was  a  decision  Johnson  very  warmly  approved. 


MR.   POLLY    TAKES  A    VACATION      101 

It  was  arranged  that  Mr.  Polly  should  occupy  his  former 
room  and  board  with  the  Johnsons  in  consideration  of  a 
weekly  payment  of  eighteen  shillings.  And  the  next 
morning  Mr.  Polly  went  out  early  and  reappeared  with 
a  purchase,  a  safety  bicycle,  which  he  proposed  to  study 
and  master  in  the  sandy  lane  below  the  Johnson's  house. 
But  over  the  struggles  that  preceded  his  mastery  it  is 
humane  to  draw  a  veil. 

And  also  Mr.  Polly  bought  a  number  of  books,  Rabe- 
lais for  his  own,  and  "  The  Arabian  Nights,"  the  works 
of  Sterne,  a  pile  of  "  Tales  from  Blackwood,"  cheap  in 
a  second-hand  bookshop,  the  plays  of  William  Shake- 
speare, a  second-hand  copy  of  Belloc's  "  Road  to  Rome," 
an  odd  volume  of  "  Purchas  his  Pilgrimes  "  and  "  The 
Life  and  Death  of  Jason." 

"  Better  get  yourself  a  good  book  on  bookkeeping," 
said  Johnson,  turning  over  perplexing  pages. 

A  belated  spring  was  now  advancing  with  great 
strides  to  make  up  for  lost  time.  Sunshine  and  a  stir- 
ring wind  were  poured  out  over  the  land,  fleets  of  tower- 
ing clouds  sailed  upon  urgent  tremendous  missions  across 
the  blue  seas  of  heaven,  and  presently  Mr.  Polly  was  rid- 
ing a  little  unstably  along  unfamiliar  Surrey  roads,  won- 
dering always  what  was  round  the  next  corner,  and 
marking  the  blackthorn  and  looking  out  for  the  first 
white  flowerbuds  of  the  may.  He  was  perplexed  and 
distressed,  as  indeed  are  all  right  thinking  souls,  that 
there  is  no  may  in  early  May. 

He  did  not  ride  at  the  even  pace  sensible  people  use 


102         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

who  have  marked  out  a  journey  from  one  place  to  an- 
other, and  settled  what  time  it  will  take  them.  He  rode 
at  variable  speeds,  and  always  as  though  he  was  looking 
for  something  that,  missing,  left  life  attractive  still,  but  a 
little  wanting  in  significance.  And  sometimes  he  was  so 
unreasonably  happy  he  had  to  whistle  and  sing,  and 
sometimes  he  was  incredibly,  but  not  at  all  painfully, 
sad.  His  indigestion  vanished  with  air  and  exercise,  and 
it  was  quite  pleasant  in  the  evening  to  stroll  about  the 
garden  with  Johnson  and  discuss  plans  for  the  future. 
Johnson  was  full  of  ideas.  Moreover,  Mr.  Polly  had 
marked  the  road  that  led  to  Stamton,  that  rising  populous 
suburb;  and  as  his  bicycle  legs  grew  strong  his  wheel 
with  a  sort  of  inevitableness  carried  him  towards  the  row 
of  houses  in  a  back  street  in  which  his  Larkins  cousins 
made  their  home  together. 

He  was  received  with  great  enthusiasm. 

The  street  was  a  dingy  little  street,  a  cul-de-sac  of  very 
small  houses  in  a  row,  each  with  an  almost  flattened  bow 
window  and  a  blistered  brown  door  with  a  black  knocker. 
He  poised  his  bright  new  bicycle  against  the  window, 
and  knocked  and  stood  waiting,  and  felt  himself  in  his 
straw  hat  and  black  serge  suit  a  very  pleasant  and  pros- 
perous-looking figure.  The  door  was  opened  by  cousin 
Miriam.  She  was  wearing  a  bluish  print  dress  that 
brought  out  a  kind  of  sallow  warmth  in  her  skin,  and 
although  it  was  nearly  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  her 
sleeves  were  tucked  up,  as  if  for  some  domestic  work, 
above  the  elbows,  showing  her  rather  slender  but  very 


MR.   POLLY    TAKES   A    VACATION      103 

shapely  yellowish  arms.  The  loosely  pinned  bodice  con- 
fessed a  delicately  rounded  neck. 

For  a  moment  she  regarded  him  with  suspicion  and  a 
faint  hostility,  and  then  recognition  dawned  in  her  eyes. 

"  Why !  "  she  said,  "  it's  cousin  Elfrid !  " 

"  Thought  I'd  look  you  up,"  he  said. 

"  Fancy !  you  coming  to  see  us  like  this ! "  she  an- 
swered. 

They  stood  confronting  one  another  for  a  moment, 
while  Miriam  collected  herself  for  the  unexpected  emer- 
gency. 

"  Exploratious  menanderings,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  indi- 
cating the  bicycle. 

Miriam's  face  betrayed  no  appreciation  of  the  remark. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  she  said,  coming  to  a  rapid  de- 
cision, "  and  I'll  tell  Ma." 

She  closed  the  door  on  him  abruptly,  leaving  him  a 
little  surprised  in  the  street.  "  Ma  1  "  he  heard  her  call- 
ing, and  swift  speech  followed,  the  import  of  which  he 
didn't  catch.  Then  she  reappeared.  It  seemed  but  an  in- 
stant, but  she  was  changed ;  the  arms  had  vanished  into 
sleeves,  the  apron  had  gone,  a  certain  pleasing  disorder 
of  the  hair  had  been  at  least  reproved. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  shut  you  out,"  she  said,  coming  out 
upon  the  step.  "  I  just  told  Ma.  How  are  you,  Elfrid? 
You  are  looking  well.  I  didn't  know  you  rode  a  bicycle. 
Is  it  a  new  one?" 

She  leaned  upon  his  bicycle.  "  Bright  it  is !  "  she  said, 
"  What  a  trouble  you  must  have  to  keep  it  clean ! " 


104         THE   HISTORY.   OF  MR.   POLLY 

Mr.  Polly  was  aware  of  a  rustling  transit  along  the 
passage,  and  of  the  house  suddenly  full  of  hushed  but 
strenuous  movement. 

"  It's  plated  mostly,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  What  do  you  carry  in  that  little  bag  thing  ?  "  she 
asked,  and  then  branched  off  to :  "  We're  all  in  a  mess 
to-day  you  know.  It's  my  cleaning  up  day  to-day.  I'm 
not  a  bit  tidy  I  know,  but  I  do  like  to  'ave  a  go  in  at 
things  now  and  then.  You  got  to  take  us  as  you  find  us, 
Elfrid.  Mercy  we  wasn't  all  out."  She  paused.  She 
was  talking  against  time.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you  again," 
she  repeated. 

"  Couldn't  keep  away,"  said  Mr.  Polly  gallantly.  "  Had 
to  come  over  and  see  my  pretty  cousins  again." 

Miriam  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  She  coloured 
deeply.  "  You  do  say  things !  "  she  said. 

She  stared  at  Mr.  Polly,  and  his  unfortunate  sense  of 
fitness  made  him  nod  his  head  towards  her,  regard  her 
firmly  with  a  round  brown  eye,  and  add  impressively: 
"  I  don't  say  which  of  them." 

Her  answering  expression  made  him  realise  for  an  in- 
stant the  terrible  dangers  he  trifled  with.  Avidity  flared 
up  in  her  eyes.  Minnie's  voice  came  happily  to  dissolve 
the  situation. 

"  'Ello,  Elfrid !  "  she  said  from  the  doorstep. 

Her  hair  was  just  passably  tidy,  and  she  was  a  little 
effaced  by  a  red  blouse,  but  there  was  no  mistaking  the 
genuine  brightness  of  her  welcome. 

He  was  to  come  in  to  tea,  and  Mrs.  Larkins,  exuber- 


MR.   POLLY   TAKES  A    VACATION      105 

antly  genial  in  a  floriferous  but  dingy  flannel  dressing 
gown,  appeared  to  confirm  that.  He  brought  in  his  bi- 
cycle and  put  it  in  the  narrow,  empty  passage,  and  every- 
one crowded  into  a  small  untidy  kitchen,  whose  table  had 
been  hastily  cleared  of  the  debris  of  the  midday  repast. 

"  You  must  come  in  'ere,"  said  Mrs.  Larkins,  "  for 
Miriam's  turning  out  the  front  room.  I  never  did  see  such 
a  girl  for  cleanin'  up.  Miriam's  'oliday's  a  scrub.  You've 
caught  us  on  the  'Op  as  the  sayin'  is,  but  Welcome  all 
the  same.  Pity  Annie's  at  work  to-day;  she  won't  be 
'ome  till  seven." 

Miriam  put  chairs  and  attended  to  the  fire,  Minnie 
edged  up  to  Mr.  Polly  and  said :  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you 
again,  Elfrid,"  with  a  warm  contiguous  intimacy  that 
betrayed  a  broken  tooth.  Mrs.  Larkins  got  out  tea 
things,  and  descanted  on  the  noble  simplicity  of  their 
lives,  and  how  he  "  mustn't  mind  our  simple  ways." 
They  enveloped  Mr.  Polly  with  a  geniality  that  intoxi- 
cated his  amiable  nature;  he  insisted  upon  helping  lay 
the  things,  and  created  enormous  laughter  by  pretending 
not  to  know  where  plates  and  knives  and  cups  ought  to 
go.  "  Who'm  I  going  to  sit  next  ?  "  he  said,  and  devel- 
oped voluminous  amusement  by  attempts  to  arrange  the 
plates  so  that  he  could  rub  elbows  with  all  three.  Mrs. 
Larkins  had  to  sit  down  in  the  Windsor  chair  by  the 
grandfather  clock  (which  was  dark  with  dirt  and  not 
going)  to  laugh  at  her  ease  at  his  well-acted  per- 
plexity. 

They  got  seated  at  last,  and  Mr.  Polly  struck  a  vein  of 


106         THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

humour  in  telling  them  how  he  learnt  to  ride  the  bicycle. 
He  found  the  mere  repetition  of  the  word  "  wabble  " 
sufficient  to  produce  almost  inextinguishable  mirth. 

"'  No  foreseeing  little  accidentulous  misadventures,"  he 
said,  "  none  whatever." 

(Giggle  from  Minnie.) 

"  Stout  elderly  gentleman — shirt  sleeves — large  straw 
wastepaper  basket  sort  of  hat — starts  to  cross  the  road — 
going  to  the  oil  shop — prodic  refreshment  of  oil  can •" 

"  Don't  say  you  run  'im  down,"  said  Mrs.  Larkins, 
gasping.  "  Don't  say  you  run  'im  down,  Elf  rid!  " 

"  Run  'im  down !  Not  me,  Madam.  I  never  run  any- 
thing down.  Wabble.  Ring  the  bell.  Wabble,  wab- 
ble  " 

(Laughter  and  tears.) 

"  No  one's  going  to  run  him  down.  Hears  the  bell ! 
Wabble.  Gust  of  wind.  Off  comes  the  hat  smack  into 
the  wheel.  Wabble.  Lord!  what's  going  to  happen? 
Hat  across  the  road,  old  gentleman  after  it,  bell,  shriek. 
He  ran  into  me.  Didn't  ring  his  bell,  hadn't  got  a  bell — 
just  ran  into  me.  Over  I  went  clinging  to  his  venerable 
head.  Down  he  went  with  me  clinging  to  him.  Oil  can 
blump,  blump  into  the  road." 

(Interlude  while  Minnie  is  attended  to  for  crumb  in 
the  windpipe.) 

"  Well,  what  happened  to  the  old  man  with  the  oil 
can?"  said  Mrs.  Larkins. 

"  We  sat  about  among  the  debreece  and  had  a  bit  of 
an  argument.  I  told  him  he  oughtn't  to  come  out  wear- 


MR.   POLLY    TAKES   A    VACATION      107 

ing  such  a  dangerous  hat — flying  at  things.  Said  if  he 
couldn't  control  his  hat  he  ought  to  leave  it  at  home. 
High  old  jawbacious  argument  we  had,  I  tell  you.  '  I 

tell  you,  sir '  '  I  tell  you,  sir.'  Waw-waw-waw.  In- 

furiacious.  But  that's  the  sort  of  thing  that's  constantly 
happening  you  know — on  a  bicycle.  People  run  into 
you,  hens  and  cats  and  dogs  and  things.  Everything 
seems  to  have  its  mark  on  you ;  everything." 

"  Yon  never  run  into  anything." 

"  Never.     Swelpme,"  said  Mr.  Polly  very  solemnly. 

"  Never,  'E  say !  "  squealed  Minnie.  "  Hark  at  'im !  " 
and  relapsed  into  a  condition  that  urgently  demanded 
back  thumping.  "  Don't  be  so  silly,"  said  Miriam,  thump- 
ing hard. 

Mr.  Polly  had  never  been  such  a  social  success  before. 
They  hung  upon  his  every  word — and  laughed.  What  a 
family  they  were  for  laughter!  And  he  loved  laughter. 
The  background  he  apprehended  dimly ;  it  was  very  much 
the  sort  of  background  his  life  had  always  had.  There 
was  a  threadbare  tablecloth  on  the  table,  and  the  slop 
basin  and  teapot  did  not  go  with  the  cups  and  saucers, 
the  plates  were  different  again,  the  knives  worn  down, 
the  butter  lived  in  a  greenish  glass  dish  of  its  own.  Be- 
hind was  a  dresser  hung  with  spare  and  miscellaneous 
crockery,  with  a  workbox  and  an  untidy  work-basket, 
there  was  an  ailing  musk  plant  in  the  window,  and  the 
tattered  and  blotched  wallpaper  was  covered  by  bright- 
coloured  grocers'  almanacs.  Feminine  wrappings  hung 
from  pegs  upon  the  door,  and  the  floor  was  covered  with 


io8         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

a  varied  collection  of  fragments  of  oilcloth.  The  wind- 
sor  chair  he  sat  in  was  unstable — which  presently  af- 
forded material  for  humour.  "  Steady,  old  nag,"  he 
said ;  "  whoa,  my  friskiacious  palfry !  " 

"  The  things  he  says !  You  never  know  what  he  won't 
say  next ! " 

III 

"  You  ain't  talkin'  of  goin' ! "  cried  Mrs.  Larkins. 

"  Supper  at  eight." 

"  Stay  to  supper  with  us,  now  you  'ave  come  over," 
said  Mrs.  Larkins,  with  corroborating  cries  from  Minnie. 
"  'Ave  a  bit  of  a  walk  with  the  gals,  and  then  come 
back  to  supper.  You  might  all  go  and  meet  Annie  while 
I  straighten  up,  and  lay  things  out." 

"  You're  not  to  go  touching  the  front  room  mind," 
said  Miriam. 

"Who's  going  to  touch  yer  front  room?"  said  Mrs. 
Larkins,  apparently  forgetful  for  a  moment  of  Mr.  Polly. 

Both  girls  dressed  with  some  care  while  Mrs.  Larkins 
sketched  the  better  side  of  their  characters,  and  then  the 
three  young  people  went  out  to  see  something  of  Stamton. 
In  the  streets  their  risible  mood  gave  way  to  a  self-con- 
scious propriety  that  was  particularly  evident  in  Miriam's 
bearing.  They  took  Mr.  Polly  to  the  Stamton  Wreck- 
ery-ation  ground — that  at  least  was  what  they  called  it — 
with  its  handsome  custodian's  cottage,  its  asphalt  paths, 
its  Jubilee  drinking  fountain,  its  clumps  of  wallflower 


MR.  POLLY.   TAKES  'A   VACATION      109 

and  daffodils,  and  so  to  the  new  cemetery  and  a  distant 
view  of  the  Surrey  hills,  and  round  by  the  gasworks  to 
the  canal  to  the  factory,  that  presently  disgorged  a  sur- 
prised and  radiant  Annie. 

"El-lo!"  said  Annie. 

It  is  very  pleasant  to  every  properly  constituted  mind 
to  be  a  centre  of  amiable  interest  for  one's  fellow 
creatures,  and  when  one  is  a  young  man  conscious  of  be- 
coming mourning  and  a  certain  wit,  and  the  fellow 
creatures  are  three  young  and  ardent  and  sufficiently 
expressive  young  women  who  dispute  for  the  honour  of 
walking  by  one's  side,  one  may  be  excused  a  secret  ex- 
altation. They  did  dispute. 

"  I'm  going  to  'ave  'im  now,"  sa'id  Annie.  "  You 
two've  been  'aving  'im  all  the  afternoon.  Besides,  I've 
got  something  to  say  to  him." 

She  had  something  to  say  to  him.  It  came  presently. 
"  I  say,"  she  said  abruptly.  "  I  did  get  them  rings  out 
of  a  prize  packet." 

"  What  rings?  "  asked  Mr.  Polly. 

"What  you  saw  at  your  poor  father's  funeral.  You 
made  out  they  meant  something.  They  didn't — straight." 

"  Then  some  people  have  been  very  remiss  about  their 
chances,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  understanding. 

"  They  haven't  had  any  chances,"  said  Annie.  "  I 
don't  believe  in  making  oneself  too  free  with  people." 

"  Nor  me,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  I  may  be  a  bit  larky  and  cheerful  in  my  manner," 


no         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

Annie  admitted.    "  But  it  don't  mean  anything.    I  ain't 
that  sort." 

"  Right  O,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 


IV 

It  was  past  ten  when  Mr.  Polly  found  himself  riding 
back  towards  Easewood  in  a  broad  moonlight  with 
a  little  Japanese  lantern  dangling  from  his  handle  bar 
and  making  a  fiery  circle  of  pinkish  light  on  and  round 
about  his  front  wheel.  He  was  mightily  pleased  with 
himself  and  the  day.  There  had  been  four-ale  to  drink 
at  supper  mixed  with  gingerbeer,  very  free  and  jolly  in  a 
jug.  No  shadow  fell  upon  the  agreeable  excitement  of 
his  mind  until  he  faced  the  anxious  and  reproachful  face 
of  Johnson,  who  had  been  sitting  up  for  him,  smoking 
and  trying  to  read  the  odd  volume  of  "  Purchas  his  Pil- 
grimes," — about  the  monk  who  went  into  Sarmatia  and' 
saw  the  Tartar  carts. 

"  Not  had  an  accident,  Elfrid?"  said  Johnson. 

The  weakness  of  Mr.  Polly's  character  came  out  in 
his  reply.  "  Not  much,"  he  said.  "  Pedal  got  a  bit  loose 
in  Stamton,  O'  Man.  Couldn't  ride  it.  So  I  looked  up 
the  cousins  while  I  waited." 

"Not  theLarkinslot?" 

"  Yes." 

Johnson  yawned  hugely  and  asked  for  and  was  given 
friendly  particulars.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  better  get  to 
bed.  I  have  been  reading  that  book  of  yours — rum  stuff. 


MR.   POLLY    TAKES  A    VACATION      in 

Can't  make  it  out  quite.  Quite  out  of  date  I  should 
say  if  you  asked  me." 

"  That's  all  right,  O'  Man,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  use  for  anything  I  can  see." 

"  Not  a  bit." 

"  See  any  shops  in  Stamton  ?  " 

"  Nothing  to  speak  of,"  said  Mr.  Polly.  "  Goo-night, 
O'  Man." 

Before  and  after  this  brief  conversation  his  mind  ran 
on  his  cousins  very  warmly  and  prettily  in  the  vein  of 
high  spring.  Mr.  Polly  had  been  drinking  at  the  poisoned 
fountains  of  English  literature,  fountains  so  unsuited  to 
the  needs  of  a  decent  clerk  or  shopman,  fountains 
charged  with  the  dangerous  suggestion  that  it  becomes 
a  man  01  gaiety  and  spirit  to  make  love,  gallantly  and 
rather  carelessly.  It  seemed  to  him  that  evening  to  be 
handsome  and  humorous  and  practicable  to  make  love  to 
all  his  cousins.  It  wasn't  that  he  liked  any  of  them  par- 
ticularly, but  he  liked  something  about  them.  He  liked 
their  youth  and  femininity,  their  resolute  high  spirits 
and  their  interest  in  him. 

They  laughed  at  nothing  and  knew  nothing,  and  Min- 
nie had  lost  a  tooth  and  Annie  screamed  and  shouted, 
but  they  were  interesting,  intensely  interesting. 

And  Miriam  wasn't  so  bad  as  the  others.  He  had 
kissed  them  all  and  had  been  kissed  in  addition  several 
times  by  Minnie, — "  oscoolatory  exercise." 

He  buried  his  nose  in  his  pillow  and  went  to  sleep — 
to  dream  of  anything  rather  than  getting  on  in  the  world, 


ii2         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

as  a  sensible  young  man  in  his  position  ought  to  have 
done. 

V 

And  now  Mr.  Polly  began  to  lead  a  divided  life.  With 
the  Johnsons  he  professed  to  be  inclined,  but  not  so  con- 
clusively inclined  as  to  be  inconvenient,  to  get  a  shop  for 
himself,  to  be,  to  use  the  phrase  he  preferred,  "  looking 
for  an  opening."  He  would  ride  off  in  the  afternoon 
upon  that  research,  remarking  that  he  was  going  to  "  cast 
a  strategetical  eye  "  on  Chertsey  or  Weybridge.  But  if 
not  all  roads,  still  a  great  majority  of  them,  led  by  how- 
ever devious  ways  to  Stamton,  and  to  laughter  and  in- 
creasing familiarity.  Relations  developed  with  Annie 
and  Minnie  and  Miriam.  Their  various  characters  were 
increasingly  interesting.  The  laughter  became  percept- 
ibly less  abundant,  something  of  the  fizz  had  gone  from 
the  first  opening,  still  these  visits  remained  wonderfully 
friendly  and  upholding.  Then  back  he  would  come  to 
grave  but  evasive  discussions  with  Johnson. 

Johnson  was  really  anxious  to  get  Mr.  Polly  "into 
something."  His  was  a  reserved  honest  character,  and 
he  would  really  have  preferred  to  see  his  lodger  doing 
things  for  himself  than  receive  his  money  for  house- 
keeping. He  hated  waste,  anybody's  waste,  much  more 
than  he  desired  profit.  But  Mrs.  Johnson  was  all  for 
Mr.  Polly's  loitering.  She  seemed  much  the  more  human 
and  likeable  of  the  two  to  Mr.  Polly. 

He  tried  at  times  to  work  up  enthusiasm   for  the 


MR.   POLLY   TAKES  A    VACATION       113 

various  avenues  to  well-being  his  discussion  with  John- 
son opened.  But  they  remained  disheartening  prospects. 
He  imagined  himself  wonderfully  smartened  up,  acquir- 
ing style  and  value  in  a  London  shop,  but  the  picture  was 
stiff  and  unconvincing.  He  tried  to  rouse  himself  to 
enthusiasm  by  the  idea  of  his  property  increasing  by 
leaps  and  bounds,  by  twenty  pounds  a  year  or  so,  let 
us  say,  each  year,  in  a  well-placed  little  shop,  the  corner 
shop  Johnson  favoured.  There  was  a  certain  pictur- 
esque interest  in  imagining  cut-throat  economies,  but  his 
heart  told  him  there  would  be  little  in  practising  them. 

And  then  it  happened  to  Mr.  Polly  that  real  Romance 
came  out  of  dreamland  into  life,  and  intoxicated  and 
gladdened  him  with  sweetly  beautiful  suggestions — and 
left  him.  She  came  and  left  him  as  that  dear  lady  leaves 
so  many  of  us,  alas!  not  sparing  him  one  jot  or  one  tittle 
of  the  hollowness  of  her  retreating  aspect. 

It  was  all  the  more  to  Mr.  Polly's  taste  that  the  thing 
should  happen  as  things  happen  in  books. 

In  a  resolute  attempt  not  to  get  to  Stamton  that  day, 
he  had  turned  due  southward  from  Easewood  towards  a 
country  where  the  abundance  of  bracken  jungles,  lady's 
smock,  stitchwork,  bluebells  and  grassy  stretches  by  the 
wayside  under  shady  trees  does  much  to  compensate  the 
lighter  type  of  mind  for  the  absence  of  promising  "  open- 
ings." He  turned  aside  from  the  road,  wheeled  his  ma- 
chine along  a  faintly  marked  attractive  trail  through 
bracken  until  he  came  to  a  heap  of  logs  against  a  high 
old  stone  wall  with  a  damaged  coping  and  wallflower 


ii4         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

plants  already  gone  to  seed.  He  sat  down,  balanced  the 
straw  hat  on  a  convenient  lump  of  wood,  lit  a  cigarette, 
and  abandoned  himself  to  agreeable  musings  and  the 
friendly  observation  of  a  cheerful  little  brown  and  grey 
bird  his  stillness  presently  encouraged  to  approach  him. 
"  This  is  All  Right,"  said  Mr.  Polly  softly  to  the  little 
brown  and  grey  bird.  "  Business — later." 

He  reflected  that  he  might  go  on  this  way  for  four  or 
five  years,  and  then  be  scarcely  worse  off  than  he  had 
been  in  his  father's  lifetime. 

"  Vile  Business,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

Then  Romance  appeared.  Or  to  be  exact,  Romance 
became  audible. 

Romance  began  as  a  series  of  small  but  increasingly 
vigorous  movements  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  then 
as  a  voice  murmuring,  then  as  a  falling  of  little  fragments 
on  the  hither  side  and  as  ten  pink  finger  tips,  scarcely 
apprehended  before  Romance  became  startling  and  em- 
phatically a  leg,  remained  for  a  time  a  fine,  slender,  ac- 
tively struggling  limb,  brown  stockinged  and  wearing  a 
brown  toe-worn  shoe,  and  then ».  A  handsome  red- 
haired  girl  wearing  a  short  dress  of  blue  linen  was  sit- 
ting astride  the  wall,  panting,  considerably  disarranged 
by  her  climbing,  and  as  yet  unaware  of  Mr.  Polly.  .  .  . 

His  fine  instincts  made  him  turn  his  head  away  and 
assume  an  attitude  of  negligent  contemplation,  with  his 
ears  and  mind  alive  to  every  sound  behind  him. 

"  Goodness ! "  said  a  voice  with  a  sharp  note  of  sur- 
prise. 


MR.  POLLY   TAKES  A    VACATION      115 

Mr.  Polly  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant.  "  Dear  me ! 
Can  I  be  of  any  assistance  ?  "  he  said  with  deferential  gal- 
lantry. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  young  lady,  and  regarded 
him  calmly  with  clear  blue  eyes. 

"  I  didn't  know  there  was  anyone  here,"  she  added. 

"  Sorry,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  "  if  I  am  intrudaceous.  I 
didn't  know  you  didn't  want  me  to  be  here." 

She  reflected  for  a  moment  on  the  word. 

"  It  isn't  that,"  she  said,  surveying  him. 

"  I  oughtn't  to  get  over  the  wall,"  she  explained.  "  It's 
out  of  bounds.  At  least  in  term  time.  But  this  being 
holidays " 

Her  manner  placed  the  matter  before  him. 

"  Holidays  is  different,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  I  don't  want  to  actually  break  the  rules,"  she 
said. 

"  Leave  them  behind  you,"  said  Mr.  Polly  with  a  catch 
of  the  breath,  "  where  they  are  safe ; "  and  marvelling 
at  his  own  wit  and  daring,  and  indeed  trembling  within 
himself,  he  held  out  a  hand  for  her. 

She  brought  another  brown  leg  from  the  unknown,  and 
arranged  her  skirt  with  a  dexterity  altogether  feminine. 
"I  think  I'll  stay  on  the  wall,"  she  decided.  "  So  longi 
as  some  of  me's  in  bounds " 

She  continued  to  regard  him  with  eyes  that  presently 
joined  dancing  in  an  irresistible  smile  of  satisfaction 
Mr.  Polly  smiled  in  return. 

"  You  bicycle  ?  "  she  said. 


n6         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY, 

Mr.  Polly  admitted  the  fact,  and  she  said  she  did  too. 

"  All  my  people  are  in  India,"  she  explained.  "  It's 
beastly  rot — I  mean  it's  frightfully  dull  being  left  here 
alone." 

"  All  my  people,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  "  are  in  Heaven !  " 

"I  say!" 

"  Fact !  "  said  Mr.  Polly.    "  Got  nobody." 

"  And  that's  why "  she  checked  her  artless  com- 
ment on  his  mourning.  "  I  say,"  she  said  in  a  sym- 
pathetic voice,  "  I  am  sorry.  I  really  am.  Was  it  a  fire 
or  a  ship — or  something?  " 

Her  sympathy  was  very  delightful.  He  shook  his 
head.  "  The  ordinary  table  of  mortality,"  he  said.  "  First 
one  and  then  another." 

Behind  his  outward  melancholy,  delight  was  dancing 
wildly.  "  Are  you  lonely  ?  "  asked  the  girl. 

Mr.  Polly  nodded. 

"  I  was  just  sitting  there  in  melancholy  rectrospecta- 
tiousness,"  he  said,  indicating  the  logs,  and  again  a  swift 
thought  fulness  swept  across  her  face. 

"  There's  no  harm  in  our  talking,"  she  reflected. 

"  It's  a  kindness.    Won't  you  get  down?  " 

She  reflected,  and  surveyed  the  turf  below  and  the 
scene  around  and  him. 

"  I'll  stay  on  the  wall,"  she  said.  "  If  only  for  bounds' 
sake." 

She  certainly  looked  quite  adorable  on  the  wall.  She 
had  a  fine  neck  and  pointed  chin  that  was  particularly 
admirable  from  below,  and  pretty  eyes  and  fine  eyebrows 


MR.   POLLY    TAKES  A    VACATION       117 

are  never  so  pretty  as  when  they  look  down  upon  one. 
But  no  calculation  of  that  sort,  thank  Heaven,  was  going 
on  beneath  her  ruddy  shock  of  hair. 


VI 

"  Let's  talk,"  she  said,  and  for  a  time  they  were  both 
tongue-tied. 

Mr.  Polly's  literary  proclivities  had  taught  him  that 
under  such  circumstances  a  strain  of  gallantry  was  de- 
manded. And  something  in  his  blood  repeated  that  les- 
son. 

"  You  make  me  feel  like  one  of  those  old  knights," 
he  said.  "  Who  rode  about  the  country  looking  for 
dragons  and  beautiful  maidens  and  chivalresque  ad- 
ventures." 

"  Oh !"  she  said.    "Why?" 

"  Beautiful  maiden,"  he  said. 

She  flushed  under  her  freckles  with  the  quick  bright 
flush  those  pretty  red-haired  people  have.  "  Nonsense !  " 
she  said. 

"  You  are.  I'm  not  the  first  to  tell  you  that.  A  beau- 
tiful maiden  imprisoned  in  an  enchanted  school." 

"  You  wouldn't  think  it  enchanted ! " 

"  And  here  am  I — clad  in  steel.  Well,  not  exactly,  but 
my  fiery  war  horse  is  anyhow.  Ready  to  absquatulate  all 
the  dragons  and  rescue  you." 

She  laughed,  a  jolly  laugh  that  showed  delightfully 
gleaming  teeth.  "  I  wish  you  could  see  the  dragons," 


n8         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

she  said  with  great  enjoyment.  Mr.  Polly  felt  they  were 
a  sun's  distance  from  the  world  of  everyday. 

"  Fly  with  me !  "  he  dared. 

She  stared  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  off  into  peals 
of  laughter.  "  You  are  funny !  "  she  said.  "  Why,  I 
haven't  known  you  five  minutes." 

"  One  doesn't — in  this  medevial  world.  My  mind  is 
made  up,  anyhow." 

He  was  proud  and  pleased  with  his  joke,  and  quick 
to  change  his  key  neatly.  "  I  wish  one  could,"  he 
said. 

"  I  wonder  if  people  ever  did!  " 

"  If  there  were  people  like  you." 

"  We  don't  even  know  each  other's  names,"  she  re- 
marked with  a  descent  to  matters  of  fact. 

"  Yours  is  the  prettiest  name  in  the  world." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  It  must  be — anyhow." 

"  It  is  rather  pretty  you  know — it's  Christabel." 

"What  did  I  tell  you?" 

"And  yours?" 

"  Poorer  than  I  deserve.    It's  Alfred." 

"  /  can't  call  you  Alfred." 

"Well,  Polly." 

"It's  a  girl's  name!" 

For  a  moment  he  was  out  of  tune.  "  I  wish  it  was !  " 
he  said,  and  could  have  bitten  out  his  tongue  at  the  Lar- 
kins  sound  of  it. 

"  I  shan't  forget  it,"  she  remarked  consolingly. 


MR.   POLLY   TAKES  A    VACATION      119 

"  I  say,"  she  said  in  the  pause  that  followed.  "  Why 
are  you  riding  about  the  country  on  a  bicycle?  " 

"  I'm  doing  it  because  I  like  it." 

She  sought  to  estimate  his  social  status  on  her  limited 
basis  of  experience.  He  stood  leaning  with  one  hand 
against  the  wall,  looking  up  at  her  and  tingling  with 
daring  thoughts.  He  was  a  littleish  man,  you  must  re- 
member, but  neither  mean-looking  nor  unhandsome  in 
those  days,  sunburnt  by  his  holiday  and  now  warmly 
flushed.  He  had  an  inspiration  to  simple  speech  that 
no  practised  trifler  with  love  could  have  bettered.  "  There 
is  love  at  first  sight,"  he  said,  and  said  it  sincerely. 

She  stared  at  him  with  eyes  round  and  big  with  excite- 
ment. 

"  I  think,"  she  said  slowly,  and  without  any  signs  of 
fear  or  retreat,  "  I  ought  to  get  back  over  the  wall." 

"  It  needn't  matter  to  you,"  he  said.  "  I'm  just  a  no- 
body. But  I  know  you  are  the  best  and  most  beautiful 
thing  I've  ever  spoken  to."  His  breath  caught  against 
something.  "  No  harm  in  telling  you  that,"  he  said. 

"  I  should  have  to  go  back  if  I  thought  you  were  seri- 
ous," she  said  after  a  pause,  and  they  both  smiled  to- 
gether. 

After  that  they  talked  in  a  fragmentary  way  for  some 
time.  The  blue  eyes  surveyed  Mr.  Polly  with  kindly 
curiosity  from  under  a  broad,  finely  modelled  brow,  much 
as  an  exceptionally  intelligent  cat  might  survey  a  new 
sort  of  dog.  She  meant  to  find  out  all  about  him.  She 
asked  questions  that  riddled  the  honest  knight  in  armour 


120         THE   HISTORY.   OF.  MR.   POLLY 

below,  and  probed  ever  nearer  to  the  hateful  secret  of 
the  shop  and  his  normal  servitude.  And  when  he  made 
a  flourish  and  mispronounced  a  word  a  thoughtful  shade 
passed  like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  across  her  face. 

"  Boom !  "  came  the  sound  of  a  gong. 

"  Lordy ! "  cried  the  girl  and  flashed  a  pair  of  brown 
legs  at  him  and  was  gone. 

Then  her  pink  finger  tips  reappeared,  and  the  top  of 
her  red  hair.  "  Knight !  "  she  cried  from  the  other  side 
of  the  wall.  "  Knight  there !  " 

"  Lady !  "  he  answered. 

"  Come  again  to-morrow !  " 

"At  your  command.     But " 

"Yes?" 

"  Just  one  finger." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"To  kiss." 

The  rustle  of  retreating  footsteps  and  silence.    .    .    . 

But  after  he  had  waited  next  day  for  twenty  minutes 
she  reappeared,  a  little  out  of  breath  with  the  effort  to 
surmount  the  wall — and  head  first  this  time.  And  it 
seemed  to  him  she  was  lighter  and  more  daring  and  al- 
together prettier  than  the  dreams  and  enchanted  mem- 
ories that  had  filled  the  interval. 


VII 

From  first  to  last  their  acquaintance  lasted  ten  days, 
but  into  that  time  Mr.  Polly  packed  ten  years  of  dreams. 


MR.   POLLY   TAKES  A    VACATION      121 

"  He  don't  seem,"  said  Johnson,  "  to  take  a  serious 
interest  in  anything.  That  shop  at  the  corner's  bound  to 
be  snapped  up  if  he  don't  look  out." 

The  girl  and  Mr.  Polly  did  not  meet  on  every  one  of 
those  ten  days ;  one  was  Sunday  and  she  could  not  come, 
and  on  the  eighth  the  school  reassembled  and  she  made 
vague  excuses.  All  their  meetings  amounted  to  this, 
that  she  sat  on  the  wall,  more  or  less  in  bounds  as  she 
expressed  it,  and  let  Mr.  Polly  fall  in  love  with  her  and 
try  to  express  it  below.  She  sat  in  a  state  of  irrespon- 
sible exaltation,  watching  him  and  at  intervals  prodding 
a  vivisecting  point  of  encouragement  into  him — with  that 
strange  passive  cruelty  which  is  natural  to  her  sex  and 
age. 

And  Mr.  Polly  fell  in  love,  as  though  the  world  had 
given  way  beneath  him  and  he  had  dropped  through  into 
another,  into  a  world  of  luminous  clouds  and  of  desolate 
hopeless  wildernesses  of  desiring  and  of  wild  valleys  of 
unreasonable  ecstasies,  a  world  whose  infinite  miseries 
were  finer  and  in  some  inexplicable  way  sweeter  than  the 
purest  gold  of  the  daily  life,  whose  joys — they  were  in- 
deed but  the  merest  remote  glimpses  of  joy — were 
brighter  than  a  dying  martyr's  vision  of  heaven.  Her 
smiling  face  looked  down  upon  him  out  of  heaven,  her 
careless  pose  was  the  living  body  of  life.  It  was  sense- 
less, it  was  utterly  foolish,  but  all  that  was  best  and  rich- 
est in  Mr.  Polly's  nature  broke  like  a  wave  and  foamed 
up  at  that  girl's  feet,  and  died,  and  never  touched  her. 
And  she  sat  on  the  wall  and  marvelled  at  him  and  was 


122         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

amused,  and  once,  suddenly  moved  and  wrung  by  his 
pleading,  she  bent  down  rather  shamefacedly  and  gave 
him  a  freckled,  tennis-blistered  little  paw  to  kiss.  And 
she  looked  into  his  eyes  and  suddenly  felt  a  perplexity,  a 
curious  swimming  of  the  mind  that  made  her  recoil  and 
stiffen,  and  wonder  afterwards  and  dream.  .  .  . 

And  then  with  some  dim  instinct  of  self-protection,  she 
went  and  told  her  three  best  friends,  great  students  of 
character  all,  of  this  remarkable  phenomenon  she  had 
discovered  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  "  I'm  wild  for  the  love 
of  you !  I  can't  keep  up  this  gesticulations  game  any 
more!  I'm  not  a  Knight.  Treat  me  as  a  human  man. 
You  may  sit  up  there  smiling,  but  I'd  die  in  torments  to 
have  you  mine  for  an  hour.  I'm  nobody  and  nothing. 
But  look  here !  Will  you  wait  for  me  for  five  years  ? 
You're  just  a  girl  yet,  and  it  wouldn't  be  hard." 

"  Shut  up !  "  said  Christabel  in  an  aside  he  did  not 
hear,  and  something  he  did  not  see  touched  her  hand. 

"  I've  always  been  just  dilletentytating  about  till  now, 
but  I  could  work.  I've  just  woke  up.  Wait  till  I've  got  a 
chance  with  the  money  I've  got." 

"  But  you  haven't  got  much  money !  " 

"  I've  got  enough  to  take  a  chance  with,  some  sort  of 
a  chance.  I'd  find  a  chance.  I'll  do  that  anyhow.  I'll  go 
away.  I  mean  what  I  say— I'll  stop  trifling  and  shirking. 
If  I  don't  come  back  it  won't  matter.  If  I  do — 

Her  expression  had  become  uneasy.  Suddenly  she 
bent  down  towards  him. 


MR.   POLLY   TAKES  A    VACATION       123 

"  Don't !  "  she  said  in  an  undertone. 

"Don't— what?" 

"  Don't  go  on  like  this !  You're  different !  Go  on  be- 
ing the  knight  who  wants  to  kiss  my  hand  as  his — what 
did  you  call  it  ?  "  The  ghost  of  a  smile  curved  her  face. 
"  Gurdrum ! " 

"But !" 

Then  through  a  pause  they  both  stared  at  each  other, 
listening. 

A  muffled  tumult  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  asserted 
itself. 

"  Shut  up,  Rosie !  "  said  a  voice. 

"  I  tell  you  I  will  see !  I  can't  half  hear.  Give  me  a 
leg  up ! " 

"  You  Idiot !  He'll  see  you.  You're  spoiling  every- 
thing." 

The  bottom  dropped  out  of  Mr.  Polly's  world.  He  felt 
as  people  must  feel  who  are  going  to  faint. 

"  You've  got  someone "  he  said  aghast. 

She  found  life  inexpressible  to  Mr.  Polly.  She  ad- 
dressed some  unseen  hearers.  "  You  filthy  little  Beasts !  " 
she  cried  with  a  sharp  note  of  agony  in  her  voice,  and 
swung  herself  back  over  the  wall  and  vanished.  There 
was  a  squeal  of  pain  and  fear,  and  a  swift,  fierce  alterca- 
tion. 

For  a  couple  of  seconds  he  stood  agape. 

Then  a  wild  resolve  to  confirm  his  worst  sense  of  what 
was  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  made  him  seize  a  log, 
put  it  against  the  stones,  clutch  the  parapet  with  inse- 


124         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

cure  fingers,  and  lug  himself  to  a  momentary  balance  on 
the  wall. 

Romance  and  his  goddess  had  vanished. 

A  red-haired  girl  with  a  pigtail  was  wringing  the 
wrist  of  a  schoolfellow  who  shrieked  with  pain  and  cried: 
"  Mercy !  mercy !  Ooo !  Christabel !  " 

"  You  idiot ! "  cried  Christabel.  "  You  giggling 
Idiot ! " 

Two  other  young  ladies  made  off  through  the  beech 
trees  from  this  outburst  of  savagery. 

Then  the  grip  of  Mr.  Polly's  fingers  gave,  and  he  hit 
his  chin  against  the  stones  and  slipped  clumsily  to  the 
ground  again,  scraping  his  cheek  against  the  wall  and 
hurting  his  shin  against  the  log  by  which  he  had  reached 
the  top.  Just  for  a  moment  he  crouched  against  the  wall. 

He  swore,  staggered  to  the  pile  of  logs  and  sat  down. 

He  remained  very  still  for  some  time,  with  his  lips 
pressed  together. 

"  Fool,"  he  said  at  last ;  "  you  Blithering  Fool !  "  and 
began  to  rub  his  shin  as  though  he  had  just  discovered  its 
bruises. 

Afterwards  he  found  his  face  was  wet  with  blood — 
which  was  none  the  less  red  stuff  from  the  heart  because 
it  came  from  slight  abrasions. 


MIRIAM 


CHAPTER   THE    SIXTH 

MIRIAM 


IT  is  an  illogical  consequence  of  one  human  being's 
ill-treatment  that  we  should  fly  immediately  to 
another,  but  that  is  the  way  with  us.  It  seemed 
to  Mr.  Polly  that  only  a  human  touch  could  assuage  the 
smart  of  his  humiliation.  Moreover  it  had  for  some  un- 
defined reason  to  be  a  feminine  touch,  and  the  number 
of  women  in  his  world  was  limited. 

He  thought  of  the  Larkins  family — the  Larkins  whom 
he  had  not  been  near  now  for  ten  long  days.  Healing 
people  they  seemed  to  him  now — healing,  simple  people. 
They  had  good  hearts,  and  he  had  neglected  them  for  a 
mirage.  If  he  rode  over  to  them  he  would  be  able  to  talk 
nonsense  and  laugh  and  forget  the  whirl  of  memories 
and  thoughts  that  was  spinning  round  and  round  so  un- 
endurably  in  his  brain. 

"  Law  !  "  said  Mrs.  Larkins,  "  come  in !  You're  quite 
a  stranger,  Elfrid  !  " 

"  Been  seeing  to  business,"  said  the  unveracious 
Polly. 

"  None  of  'em  ain't  at  'ome,  but  Miriam's  just  out  to 

127 


128         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY, 

do  a  bit  of  shopping.  Won't  let  me  shop,  she  won't,  be- 
cause I'm  so  keerless.  She's  a  wonderful  manager,  that 
girl.  Minnie's  got  some  work  at  the  carpet  place.  'Ope 
it  won't  make  'er  ill  again.  She's  a  loving  deliket  sort, 
is  Minnie.  .  .  .  Come  into  the  front  parlour.  It's  a 
bit  untidy,  but  you  got  to  take  us  as  you  find  us.  Wot 
you  been  doing  to  your  face  ?  " 

"  Bit  of  a  scrase  with  the  bicycle,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

'"Ow?" 

"  Trying  to  pass  a  carriage  on  the  on  side,  and  he  drew 
up  and  ran  me  against  a  wall." 

Mrs.  Larkins  scrutinised  it.  "  You  ought  to  'ave  some- 
one look  after  your  scrases,"  she  said.  "  That's  all  red 
and  rough.  It  ought  to  be  cold-creamed.  Bring  your 
bicycle  into  the  passage  and  come  in." 

She  "  straightened  up  a  bit,"  that  is  to  say  she  increased 
the  dislocation  of  a  number  of  scattered  articles,  put  a 
workbasket  on  the  top  of  several  books,  swept  two  or 
three  dogs'-eared  numbers  of  the  Lady's  Own  Novelist 
from  the  table  into  the  broken  armchair,  and  proceeded 
to  sketch  together  the  tea-things  with  various  such  inter- 
polations as :  "  Law,  if  I  ain't  forgot  the  butter !  "  All  the 
while  she  talked  of  Annie's  good  spirits  and  cleverness 
with  her  millinery,  and  of  Minnie's  affection  and  Mir- 
iam's relative  love  of  order  and  management.  Mr.  Polly 
stood  by  the  window  uneasily  and  thought  how  good  and 
sincere  was  the  Larkins  tone.  It  was  well  to  be  back 
again. 


MIRIAM,  129 

"  You're  a  long  time  finding  that  shop  of  yours,"  said 
Mrs.  Larkins. 

"  Don't  do  to  be  precipitous,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Larkins,  "  once  you  got  it  you  got  it. 
Like  choosing  a  'usband.  You  better  see  you  got  it  good. 
I  kept  Larkins  'esitating  two  years  I  did,  until  I  felt  sure 
of  him.  A  'ansom  man  'e  was  as  you  can  see  by  the 
looks  of  the  girls,  but  'ansom  is  as  'ansom  does.  You'd 
like  a  bit  of  jam  to  your  tea,  I  expect?  I  'ope  they'll 
keep  their  men  waiting  when  the  time  comes.  I  tell  them 
if  they  think  of  marrying  it  only  shows  they  don't  know 
when  they're  well  off.  Here's  Miriam'!" 

Miriam  entered  with  several  parcels  in  a  net,  and  a 
peevish  expression.  "  Mother,"  she  said,  "  you  might 
'ave  prevented  my  going  out  with  the  net  with  the  broken 
handle.  I've  been  cutting  my  fingers  with  the  string  all 
the  way  'ome."  Then  she  discovered  Mr.  Polly  and 
her  face  brightened. 

"  Ello,  Elf  rid!  "  she  said.  "  Where  you  been  all  this 
time?" 

"  Looking  round,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Found  a  shop  ?  " 

"  One  or  two  likely  ones.    But  it  takes  time." 

"  You've  got  the  wrong  cups,  Mother." 

She  went  into  the  kitchen,  disposed  of  her  purchases, 
and  returned  with  the  right  cups.  "What  you  done  to 
your  face,  Elfrid?"  she  asked,  and  came  and  scrutinised 
his  scratches.  "  All  rough  it  is." 


130         THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

He  repeated  his  story  of  the  accident,  and  she  was 
sympathetic  in  a  pleasant  homely  way. 

"  You  are  quiet  to-day,"  she  said  as  they  sat  down  to 
tea." 

"  Meditatious,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

Quite  by  accident  he  touched  her  hand  on  the  table, 
and  she  answered  his  touch. 

"  Why  not  ? "  thought  Mr.  Polly,  and  looking  up, 
caught  Mrs.  Larkins'  eye  and  flushed  guiltily.  But  Mrs. 
Larkins,  with  unusual  restraint,  said  nothing.  She 
merely  made  a  grimace,  enigmatical,  but  in  its  essence 
friendly. 

Presently  Minnie  came  in  with  some  vague  grievance 
against  the  manager  of  the  carpet-making  place  about 
his  method  of  estimating  piece  work.  Her  account  was 
redundant,  defective  and  highly  technical,  but  redeemed 
by  a  certain  earnestness.  "  I'm  never  within  sixpence  of 
what  I  reckon  to  be,"  she  said.  "  It's  a  bit  too  'ot." 
Then  Mr.  Polly,  feeling  that  he  was  being  conspicuously 
dull,  launched  into  a  description  of  the  shop  he  was  look- 
ing for  and  the  shops  he  had  seen.  His  mind  warmed  up 
as  he  talked. 

"  Found  your  tongue  again,"  said  Mrs.  Larkins. 

He  had.  He  began  to  embroider  the  subject  and  work 
upon  it.  For  the  first  time  it  assumed  picturesque  and 
desirable  qualities  in  his  mind.  It  stimulated  him  to  see 
how  readily  and  willingly  they  accepted  his  sketches. 
Bright  ideas  appeared  in  his  mind  from  nowhere.  He 
was  suddenly  enthusiastic. 


MIRIAM  131 

"  When  I  get  this  shop  of  mine  I  shall  have  a  cat. 
Must  make  a  home  for  a  cat,  you  know." 

"  What,  to  catch  the  mice?  '  said  Mrs.  Larkins. 

"  No — sleep  in  the  window.  A  venerable  signer  of  a 
cat.  Tabby.  Cat's  no  good  if  it  isn't  tabby.  Cat  I'm 
going  to  have,  and  a  canary !  Didn't  think  of  that  before, 
but  a  cat  and  a  canary  seem  to  go,  you  know.  Summer 
weather  I  shall  sit  at  breakfast  in  the  little  room  behind 
the  shop,  sun  streaming  in  the  window  to  rights,  cat  on 
a  chair,  canary  singing  and — Mrs.  Polly.  .  .  ." 

"  Ello ! "  said  Mrs.  Larkins. 

"  Mrs.  Polly  frying  an  extra  bit  of  bacon.  Bacon 
singing,  cat  singing,  canary  singing".  Kettle  singing. 
Mrs.  Polly " 

"  But  who's  Mrs.  Polly  going  to  be  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Lar- 
kins. 

"  Figment  of  the  imagination,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 
"  Put  in  to  fill  up  picture.  No  face  to  figure  as  yet. 
Still,  that's  how  it  will  be,  I  can  assure  you.  I  think  I 
must  have  a  bit  of  garden.  Johnson's  the  man  for  a 
garden  of  course,"  he  said,  going  off  at  a  tangent,  "  but 
I  don't  mean  a  fierce  sort  of  garden.  Earnest  industry^ 
Anxious  moments.  Fervous  digging.  Shan't  go  in  for 
that  sort  of  garden,  ma'am.  No!  Too  much  back- 
ache for  me.  My  garden  will  be  just  a  patch  of  'stur- 
tiums  and  sweet  pea.  Red  brick  yard,  clothes'  line. 
Trellis  put  up  in  odd  time.  Humorous  wind  vane. 
Creeper  up  the  back  of  the  house." 

"Virginia  creeper?"  asked  Miriam. 


132         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY. 

"Canary  creeper,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  You  will  'ave  it  nice,"  said  Miriam,  desirously. 

"Rather,"  said  Mr.  Polly.  "  Ting-a-ling-a-ling. 
Shop!" 

He  straightened  himself  up  and  then  they  all 
laughed. 

"  Smart  little  shop,"  he  said.  "  Counter.  Desk.  All 
complete.  Umbrella  stand.  Carpet  on  the  floor.  Cat 
asleep  on  the  counter.  Ties  and  hose  on  a  rail  over  the 
counter.  All  right." 

"  I  wonder  you  don't  set  about  it  right  off,"  said 
Miriam. 

"  Mean  to  get  it  exactly  right,  m'am,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Have  to  have  a  tomcat,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  paused 
for  an  expectant  moment.  "  Wouldn't  do  to  open  shop 
one  morning,  you  know,  and  find  the  window  full  of  kit- 
tens. Can't  sell  kittens.  .  .  ." 

When  tea  was  over  he  was  left  alone  with  Minnie  for 
a  few  minutes,  and  an  odd  intimation  of  an  incident 
occurred  that  left  Mr.  Polly  rather  scared  and  shaken. 
A  silence  fell  between  them — an  uneasy  silence.  He  sat 
with  his  elbows  on  the  table  looking  at  her.  All  the  way 
from  Easewood  to  Stamton  his  erratic  imagination  had 
been  running  upon  neat  ways  of  proposing  marriage.  I 
don't  know  why  it  should  have  done,  but  it  had.  It 
was  a  kind  of  secret  exercise  that  had  not  had  any  defi- 
nite aim  at  the  time,  but  which  now  recurred  to  him 
with  extraordinary  force.  He  couldn't  think  of  any- 
thing in  the  world  that  wasn't  the  gambit  to  a  proposal, 


MIRIAM  133 

It  was  almost  irresistibly  fascinating  to  think  how  im- 
mensely a  few  words  from  him  would  excite  and  revolu- 
tionise Minnie.  She  was  sitting  at  the  table  with  a  work- 
basket  among  the  tea  things,  mending  a  glove  in  order  to 
avoid  her  share  of  clearing  away. 

"  I  like  cats,"  said  Minnie  after  a  thoughtful  pause. 
"  I'm  always  saying  to  mother,  '  I  wish  we  'ad  a  cat.' 
But  we  couldn't  'ave  a  cat  'ere — not  with  no  yard." 

"  Never  had  a  cat  myself,"  said  Mr.  Polly.    "  No !  " 

"  I'm  fond  of  them,"  said  Minnie. 

"  I  like  the  look  of  them,"  said  Mr.  Polly.  "  Can't 
exactly  call  myself  fond." 

"  I  expect  I  shall  get  one  some  day.  When  about  you 
get  your  shop." 

"  I  shall  have  my  shop  all  right  before  long,"  said 
'Mr.  Polly.  "  Trust  me.  Canary  bird  and  all." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  shall  get  a  cat  first,"  she 
said.  "  You  never  mean  anything  you  say." 

"  Might  get  'em  together,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  with  his 
sense  of  a  neat  thing  outrunning  his  discretion. 

"  Why !  'ow  d'you  mean  ? "  said  Minnie,  suddenly 
alert. 

"  Shop  and  cat  thrown  in,"  said  Mr.  Polly  in  spite  of 
himself,  and  his  head  swam  and  he  broke  out  into  a  cold 
sweat  as  he  said  it. 

He  found  her  eyes  fixed  on  him  with  an  eager  expres- 
sion. "  Mean  to  say "  she  began  as  if  for  verifica- 
tion. He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  turned  to  the  window. 
"  Little  dog !  "  he  said,  and  moved  doorward  hastily. 


134         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

"  Eating  my  bicycle  tire,  I  believe,"  he  explained.  And 
so  escaped. 

He  saw  his  bicycle  in  the  hall  and  cut  it  dead. 

He  heard  Mrs.  Larkins  in  the  passage  behind  him  as 
he  opened  the  front  door. 

He  turned  to  her.  "  Thought  my  bicycle  was  on  fire," 
he  said.  "  Outside.  Funny  fancy !  All  right,  reely. 
Little  dog  outside.  .  .  .  Miriam  ready?" 

"What  for?" 

"  To  go  and  meet  Annie." 

Mrs.  Larkins  stared  at  him.  "  You're  stopping  for  a 
bit  of  supper?  " 

"  If  I  may,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  You're  a  rum  un/'  said  Mrs.  Larkins,  and  called : 
"  Miriam !  " 

Minnie  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  room  looking  infi- 
nitely perplexed.  "  There  ain't  a  little  dog  anywhere, 
Elfrid,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Polly  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow.  "  I  had  a 
most  curious  sensation.  Felt  exactly  as  though  something 
was  up  somewhere.  That's  why  I  said  Little  Dog.  All 
right  now." 

He  bent  down  and  pinched  his  bicycle  tire. 

"  You  was  saying  something  about  a  cat,  Elfrid,"  said 
Minnie. 

"  Give  you  one,"  he  answered  without  looking  up. 
"  The  very  day  my  shop  is  opened." 

He  straightened  himself  up  and  smiled  reassuringly. 
"Trust  me,"  he  said. 


MIRIAM  135 

II 

When,  after  imperceptible  manoeuvres  by  Mrs.  Larkins, 
he  found  himself  starting  circuitously  through  the  inevita- 
ble recreation  ground  with  Miriam  to  meet  Annie,  he 
found  himself  quite  unable  to  avoid  the  topic  of  the 
shop  that  had  now  taken  such  a  grip  upon  him.  A  sense 
of  danger  only  increased  the  attraction.  Minnie's  per- 
sistent disposition  to  accompany  them  had  been  crushed 
by  a  novel  and  violent  and  urgently  expressed  desire  on 
the  part  of  Mrs.  Larkins  to  see  her  do  something  in  the 
house  sometimes.  .  .  . 

"  You  really  think  you'll  open  a  shop  ?  "  asked  Miriam. 

"  I  hate  cribs,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  adopting  a  moderate 
tone.  "  In  a  shop  there's  this  drawback  and  that,  but 
one  is  one's  own  master." 

"That  wasn't  all  talk?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it." 

"  After  all,"  he  went  on,  "  a  little  shop  needn't  be  so 
bad." 

"  It's  a  'ome,"  said  Miriam. 

"  It's  a  home." 

Pause. 

"  There's  no  need  to  keep  accounts  and  that  sort  of 
thing  if  there's  no  assistant.  I  daresay  I  could  run  a 
shop  all  right  if  I  wasn't  interfered  with." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you  in  your  shop,"  said  Miriam. 
"  I  expect  you'd  keep  everything  tremendously  neat." 

The  conversation  flagged. 


136         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

"  Let's  sit  down  on  one  of  those  seats  over  there,"  said 
Miriam.  "  Where  we  can  see  those  blue  flowers." 

They  did  as  she  suggested,  and  sat  down  in  a  corner 
where  a  triangular  bed  of  stock  and  delphinium  bright- 
ened the  asphalted  traceries  of  the  Recreation  Ground. 

"  I  wonder  what  they  call  those  flowers,"  she  said. 
"  I  always  like  them.  They're  handsome." 

"  Delphicums  and  larkspurs,"  said  Mr.  Polly.  "  They 
used  to  be  in  the  park  at  Port  Burdock." 

"  Floriferous  corner,"  he  added  approvingly. 

He  put  an  arm  over  the  back  of  the  seat,  and  assumed 
a  more  comfortable  attitude.  He  glanced  at  Miriam, 
who  was  sitting  in  a  lax,  thoughtful  pose  with  her  eyes 
on  the  flowers.  She  was  wearing  her  old  dress,  she  had 
not  had  time  to  change,  and  the  blue  tones  of  her  old 
dress  brought  out  a  certain  warmth  in  her  skin,  and  her 
pose  exaggerated  whatever  was  feminine  in  her  rather 
lean  and  insufficient  body,  and  rounded  her  flat  chest 
delusively.  A  little  line  of  light  lay  along  her  profile. 
The  afternoon  was  full  of  transfiguring  sunshine,  chil- 
dren were  playing  noisily  in  the  adjacent  sandpit,  some 
Judas  trees  were  brightly  abloom  in  the  villa  gardens 
that  bordered  the  Recreation  Ground,  and  all  the  place 
was  bright  with  touches  of  young  summer  colour.  It 
all  merged  with  the  effect  of  Miriam  in  Mr.  Polly's 
mind. 

Her  thoughts  found  speech.  "  One  did  ought  to  be 
happy  in  a  shop,"  she  said  with  a  note  of  unusual  softness 
in  her  voice. 


MIRIAM  137 

It  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  right.  One  did  ought 
to  be  happy  in  a  shop.  Folly  not  to  banish  dreams  that 
made  one  ache  of  townless  woods  and  bracken  tangles 
and  red-haired  linen-clad  figures  sitting  in  dappled  sun- 
shine upon  grey  and  crumbling  walls  and  looking  queenly 
down  on  one  with  clear  blue  eyes.  Cruel  and  foolish 
dreams  they  were,  that  ended  in  one's  being  laughed  at 
and  made  a  mock  of.  There  was  no  mockery  here. 

"A  shop's  such  a  respectable  thing  to  be,"  said  Miriam 
thoughtfully. 

"I  could  be  happy  in  a  shop,"  he  said. 

His  sense  of  effect  made  him  pause. 

"  If  I  had  the  right  company,"  he  added. 

She  became  very  still. 

Mr.  Polly  swerved  a  little  from  the  conversational  ice- 
run  upon  which  he  had  embarked. 

"  I'm  not  such  a  blooming  Geezer,"  he  said,  "  as  not 
to  be  able  to  sell  goods  a  bit.  One  has  to  be  nosy 
over  one's  buying  of  course.  But  I  shall  do  all 
right." 

He  stopped,  and  felt  falling,  falling  through  the  ach- 
ing silence  that  followed. 

"  If  you  get  the  right  company,"  said  Miriam. 

"I  shall  get  that  all  right." 

"  You  don't  mean  you've  got  someone " 

He  found  himself  plunging. 

"  I've  got  someone  in  my  eye,  this  minute,"  he  said. 

"  Elfrid ! "  she  said,  turning  on  him.  "  You  don't 
mean " 


138         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

Well,  did  he  mean?    "  I  do !  "  he  said. 

"  Not  reely !  "     She  clenched  her  hands  to  keep  still. 

He  took  the  conclusive  step. 

"  Well,  you  and  me,  Miriam,  in  a  little  shop — with  a 

cat  and  a  canary ."  He  tried  too  late  to  get  back  to 

a  hypothetical  note.  "  Just  suppose  it !  " 

"  You  mean,"  said  Miriam,  "  you're  in  love  with  me. 
Elf  rid?" 

What  possible  answer  can  a  man  give  to  such  a  ques- 
tion but  "Yes!" 

Regardless  of  the  public  park,  the  children  in  the  sand- 
pit and  everyone,  she  bent  forward  and  seized  his  shoul- 
der and  kissed  him  on  the  lips.  Something  lit  up  in  Mr. 
Polly  at  the  touch.  He  put  an  arm  about  her  and  kissed 
her  back,  and  felt  an  irrevocable  act  was  sealed.  He 
had  a  curious  feeling  that  it  would  be  very  satisfying  to 
marry  and  have  a  wife — only  somehow  he  wished  it 
wasn't  Miriam.  Her  lips  were  very  pleasant  to  him,  and 
the  feel  of  her  in  his  arm. 

They  recoiled  a  little  from  each  other  and  sat  for  a 
moment,  flushed  and  awkwardly  silent.  His  mind  was 
altogether  incapable  of  controlling  its  confusion. 

"  I  didn't  dream,"  said  Miriam,  "  you  cared . 

Sometimes  I  thought  it  was  Annie,  sometimes  Min- 
nie  " 

"  Always  liked  you  better  than  them,"  said  Mr. 
Polly. 

"  I  loved  you,  Elfrid,"  said  Miriam,  "  since  ever  we 
met  at  your  poor  father's  funeral.  Leastways  I  would 


MIRIAM  139 

have  done,  if  I  had  thought.  You  didn't  seem  to  mean 
anything  you  said." 

"  I  can't  believe  it !  "  she  added. 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  You  mean  to  marry  me  and  start  that  little  shop " 

"  Soon  as  ever  I  find  it,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  I  had  no  more  idea  when  I  came  out  with  you " 

"Nor  me!" 

"  It's  like  a  dream." 

They  said  no  more  for  a  little  while. 

"  I  got  to  pinch  myself  to  think  it's  real,"  said  Miriam. 
"  What  they'll  do  without  me  at  'ome  I  can't  imagine. 
When  I  tell  them " 

For  the  life  of  him  Mr.  Polly  could  not  tell  whether 
he  was  fullest  of  tender  anticipations  or  regretful  panic. 

"  Mother's  no  good  at  managing — not  a  bit.  Annie 
don't  care  for  'ouse  work  and  Minnie's  got  no  'ed  for  it. 
What  they'll  do  without  me  I  can't  imagine." 

"  They'll  have  to  do  without  you,"  said  Mr.  Polly, 
sticking  to  his  guns. 

A  clock  in  the  town  began  striking. 

"  Lor' !  "  said  Miriam,  "  we  shall  miss  Annie — sitting 
'ere  and  love-making !  " 

She  rose  and  made  as  if  to  take  Mr.  Polly's  arm.  But 
Mr.  Polly  felt  that  their  condition  must  be  nakedly  ex- 
posed to  the  ridicule  of  the  world  by  such  a  linking,  and 
evaded  her  movement. 

Annie  was  already  in  sight  before  a  flood  of  hesitation 
and  terrors  assailed  Mr.  Polly. 


140         THE   HISTORY    OF.   MR.   POLLY. 

"  Don't  tell  anyone  yet  a  bit,"  he  said. 
"  Only  mother,"  said  Miriam  firmly. 


Ill 

Figures  are  the  most  shocking  things  in  the  world.  The 
pettiest  little  squiggles  of  black — looked  at  in  the  right 
light,  and  yet  consider  the  blow  they  can  give  you  upon 
the  heart.  You  return  from  a  little  careless  holiday 
abroad,  and  turn  over  the  page  of  a  newspaper,  and 
against  the  name  of  that  distant,  vague-conceived  rail- 
way in  mortgages  upon  which  you  have  embarked  the 
bulk  of  your  capital,  you  see  instead  of  the  familiar,  per- 
sistent 95-6  (varying  at  most  to  93  ex.  div.)  this  slightly 
richer  arrangement  of  marks:  76^-78^. 

It  is  like  the  opening  of  a  pit  just  under  your  feet! 

So,  too,  Mr.  Polly's  happy  sense  of  limitless  resources 
was  obliterated  suddenly  by  a  vision  of  this  tracery: 

"298" 

instead  of  the 

"350" 

he  had  come  to  regard  as  the  fixed  symbol  of  his  afflu- 
ence. 

It  gave  him  a  disagreeable  feeling  about  the  dia- 
phragm, akin  in  a  remote  degree  to  the  sensation  he  had 
when  the  perfidy  of  the  red-haired  schoolgirl  became 
plain  to  him.  It  made  his  brow  moist. 

"  Going  down  a  vortex !  "  he  whispered. 


MIRIAM  141 

By  a  characteristic  feat  of  subtraction  he  decided  that 
he  must  have  spent  sixty-two  pounds. 

"  Funererial  baked  meats,"  he  said,  recalling  possible 
items. 

The  happy  dream  in  which  he  had  been  living  of  long 
warm  days,  of  open  roads,  of  limitless  unchecked  hours, 
of  infinite  time  to  look  about  him,  vanished  like  a  thing 
enchanted.  He  was  suddenly  back  in  the  hard  old  eco- 
nomic world,  that  exacts  work,  that  limits  range,  that  dis- 
courages phrasing  and  dispels  laughter.  He  saw  Wood 
Street  and  its  fearful  suspenses  yawning  beneath  his 
feet. 

And  also  he  had  promised  to  marry  Miriam,  and  on 
the  whole  rather  wanted  to. 

He  was  distraught  at  supper.  Afterwards,  when  Mrs. 
Johnson  had  gone  to  bed  with  a  slight  headache,  he 
opened  a  conversation  with  Johnson. 

"  It's  about  time,  O'  Man,  I  saw  about  doing  some- 
thing," he  said.  "  Riding  about  and  looking  at  shops, 
all  very  debonnairious,  O'  Man,  but  it's  time  I  took  one 
for  keeps." 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  said  Johnson. 

"  How  do  you  think  that  corner  shop  of  yours  will 
figure  out?"  Mr.  Polly  asked. 

"  You're  really  meaning  it  ?  " 

"  If  it's  a  practable  proposition,  O'  Man.  Assuming 
it's  practable.  What's  your  idea  of  the  figures  ?  " 

Johnson  went  to  the  chiffonier,  got  out  a  letter  and  tore 
off  the  back  sheet.  "  Let's  figure  it  out,"  he  said  with 


142         THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

solemn  satisfaction.  "  Let's  see  the  lowest  you  could 
do  it  on." 

He  squared  himself  to  the  task,  and  Mr.  Polly  sat  be- 
side him  like  a  pupil,  watching  the  evolution  of  the  grey, 
distasteful  figures  that  were  to  dispose  of  his  little 
hoard. 

"  What  running  expenses  have  we  got  to  provide  for?  " 
said  Johnson,  wetting  his  pencil.  "  Let's  have  them  first. 
Rent?  .  .  ." 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  of  hideous  speculations,  John- 
son decided :  "  It's  close.  But  you'll  have  a  chance." 

"  M'm,"  said  Mr.  Polly.  "  What  more  does  a  brave 
man  want  ? " 

"  One  thing  you  can  do  quite  easily.  I've  asked  about 
it." 

"What's  that,  O'  Man?"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Take  the  shop  without  the  house  above  it." 

"  I  suppose  I  might  put  my  head  in  to  mind  it,"  said 
Mr.  Polly,  "  and  get  a  job  with  my  body." 

"  Not  exactly  that.  But  I  thought  you'd  save  a  lot 
if  you  stayed  on  here — being  all  alone  as  you  are." 

"  Never  thought  of  that,  O'  Man,"  said  Mr.  Polly, 
and  reflected  silently  upon  the  needlessness  of  Miriam. 

"  We  were  talking  of  eighty  pounds  for  stock,"  said 
Johnson.  "  Of  course  seventy-five  is  five  pounds  less, 
isn't  it?  Not  much  else  we  can  cut." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  It's  very  interesting,  all  this,"  said  Johnson,  folding 
up  the  half  sheet  of  paper  and  unfolding  it.  "  I  wish 


MIRIAM  143 

sometimes  I  had  a  business  of  my  own  instead  of  a 
fixed  salary.  You'll  have  to  keep  books  of  course." 

"  One  wants  to  know  where  one  is." 

"  I  should  do  it  all  by  double  entry,"  said  Johnson. 
"  A  little  troublesome  at  first,  but  far  the  best  in  the 
end." 

"  Lemme  see  that  paper,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  took 
it  with  the  feeling  of  a  man  who  takes  a  nauseating  medi- 
cine, and  scrutinised  his  cousin's  neat  figures  with  list- 
less eyes. 

"  Well,"  said  Johnson,  rising  and  stretching.  "  Bed ! 
Better  sleep  on  it,  O'  Man." 

"  Right  O,"  said  Mr.  Polly  without  moving,  but  in- 
deed he  could  as  well  have  slept  upon  a  bed  of 
thorns. 

He  had  a  dreadful  night.  It  was  like  the  end  of  the 
annual  holiday,  only  infinitely  worse.  It  was  like  a 
newly  arrived  prisoner's  backward  glance  at  the  trees 
and  heather  through  the  prison  gates.  He  had  to  go 
back  to  harness,  and  he  was  as  fitted  to  go  in  harness  as 
the  ordinary  domestic  cat.  All  night,  Fate,  with  the 
quiet  complacency,  and  indeed  at  times  the  very  face  and 
gestures  of  Johnson,  guided  him  towards  that  undesired 
establishment  at  the  corner  near  the  station.  "  Oh 
Lord !  "  he  cried,  "  I'd  rather  go  back  to  cribs.  I 
should  keep  my  money  anyhow."  Fate  never  winced. 

"  Run  away  to  sea,"  whispered  Mr.  Polly,  but  he  knew 
he  wasn't  man  enough. 

"  Cut  my  blooming  throat." 


144         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

Some  braver  strain  urged  him  to  think  of  Miriam,  and 
for  a  little  while  he  lay  still.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  O'  Man  ?  "  said  Johnson,  when  Mr.  Polly  came 
^down  to  breakfast,  and  Mrs.  Johnson  looked  up  brightly. 
Mr.  Polly  had  never  felt  breakfast  so  unattractive  be- 
fore. 

"Just  a  day  or  so  more,  O'  Man — to  turn  it  over  in 
.my  mind,"  he  said. 

"  You'll  get  the  place  snapped  up,"  said  Johnson. 

There  were  times  in  those  last  few  days  of  coyness 
with  his  destiny  when  his  engagement  seemed  the  most 
negligible  of  circumstances,  and  times — and  these  hap- 
pened for  the  most  part  at  nights  after  Mrs.  Johnson 
had  indulged  everybody  in  a  Welsh  rarebit — when  it 
assumed  so  sinister  and  portentous  an  appearance  as  to 
make  him  think  of  suicide.  And  there  were  times  too 
when  he  very  distinctly  desired  to  be  married,  now  that 
the  idea  had  got  into  his  head,  at  any  cost.  Also  he 
tried  to  recall  all  the  circumstances  of  his  proposal,  time 
after  time,  and  never  quite  succeeded  in  recalling  what 
had  brought  the  thing  off.  He  went  over  to  Stamton 
with  a  becoming  frequency,  and  kissed  all  his  cousins, 
•and  Miriam  especially,  a  great  deal,  and  found  it  very 
stirring  and  refreshing.  They  all  appeared  to  know; 
and  Minnie  was  tearful,  but  resigned.  Mrs.  Larkins  met 
'him,  and  indeed  enveloped  him,  with  unwonted  warmth, 
and  there  was  a  big  pot  of  household  jam  for  tea.  And 
he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  sign  his  name  to  any- 
thing about  the  shop,  though  it  crawled  nearer  and  nearer 


MIRIAM  145 

to  him,  though  the  project  had  materialised  now  to  the 
extent  of  a  draft  agreement  with  the  place  for  his  signa- 
ture indicated  in  pencil. 

One  morning,  just  after  Mr.  Johnson  had  gone  to  the 
station,  Mr.  Polly  wheeled  his  bicycle  out  into  the  road, 
went  up  to  his  bedroom,  packed  his  long  white  night- 
dress, a  comb,  and  a  toothbrush  in  a  manner  that  was  as 
offhand  as  he  could  make  it,  informed  Mrs.  Johnson, 
who  was  manifestly  curious,  that  he  was  "  off  for  a 
day  or  two  to  clear  his  head,"  and  fled  forthright  into 
the  road,  and  mounting  turned  his  wheel  towards,  the 
tropics  and  the  equator  and  the  south  coast  of  England, 
and  indeed  more  particularly  to  where  the  little  village 
of  Fishbourne  slumbers  and  sleeps. 

When  he  returned  four  days  later,  he  astonished  John- 
son beyond  measure  by  remarking  so  soon  as  the  shop 
project  was  reopened: 

"  I've  took  a  little  contraption  at  Fishbourne,  O'  Man, 
that  I  fancy  suits  me  better." 

He  paused,  and  then  added  in  a  manner,  if  possible, 
even  more  offhand: 

"  Oh !  and  I'm  going  to  have  a  bit  of  a  nuptial  over  at 
Stamton  with  one  of  the  Larkins  cousins." 

"  Nuptial !  "  said  Johnson. 

"  Wedding  bells,  O'  Man.     Benedictine  collapse." 

On  the  whole  Johnson  showed  great  self-control.  "  It's 
your  own  affair,  O'  Man,"  he  said,  when  things  had  beea 
more  clearly  explained,  "  and  I  hope  you  won't  feel 
sorry  when  it's  too  late." 


146         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

But  Mrs.  Johnson  was  first  of  all  angrily  silent,  and 
then  reproachful.  "  I  don't  see  what  we've  done  to  be 
made  fools  of  like  this,"  she  said  "  After  all  the  trou- 
ble we've  'ad  to  make  you  comfortable  and  see  after 
you.  Out  late  and  sitting  up  and  everything.  And 
then  you  go  off  as  sly  as  sly  without  a  word,  and  get  a 
shop  behind  our  backs  as  though  you  thought  we  meant 
to  steal  your  money.  I  'aven't  patience  with  such  deceit- 
fulness,  and  I  didn't  think  it  of  you,  Elfrid.  And  now; 
the  letting  season's  'arf  gone  by,  and  what  I  shall  do  with 
that  room  of  yours  I've  no  idea.  Frank  is  frank,  and 
fair  play  fair  play;  so  /  was  told  any'ow  when  I  was  a 
girl.  Just  as  long  as  it  suits  you  to  stay  'ere  you  stay 
'ere,  and  then  it's  off  and  no  thank  you  whether  we  like 
it  or  not.  Johnson's  too  easy  with  you.  'E  sits  there 
and  doesn't  say  a  word,  and  night  after  night  Vs  been 
addin'  and  thinkin'  for  you,  instead  of  seeing  to  his 
own  affairs " 

She  paused  for  breath. 

"  Unfortunate  amoor,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  apologetically 
and  indistinctly.  "  Didn't  expect  it  myself." 

IV 

Mr.  Polly's  marriage  followed  with  a  certain  inevita- 
bleness. 

He  tried  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  acting  upon 
his  own  forceful  initiative,  but  at  the  back  of  his  mind 
was  the  completest  realisation  of  his  powerlessness  to 


MIRIAM  147 

resist  the  gigantic  social  forces  he  had  set  in  motion. 
He  had  got  to  marry  under  the  will  of  society,  even  as 
in  times  past  it  has  been  appointed  for  other  sunny  souls 
under  the  will  of  society  that  they  should  be  led  out  by 
serious  and  unavoidable  fellow-creatures  and  ceremoni- 
ously drowned  or  burnt  or  hung.  He  would  have  pre- 
'ferred  infinitely  a  more  observant  and  less  conspicuous 
role,  but  the  choice  was  no  longer  open  to  him.  He 
'did  his  best  to  play  his  part,  and  he  procured  some  partic- 
ularly neat  check  trousers  to  do  it  in.  The  rest  of  his 
costume,  except  for  some  bright  yellow  gloves,  a  grey  and 
blue  mixture  tie,  and  that  the  broad  crape  hat-band  was 
changed  for  a  livelier  piece  of  silk,  were  the  things  he 
had  worn  at  the  funeral  of  his  father.  So  nearly  akin 
are  human  joy  and  sorrow. 

The  Larkins  sisters  had  done  wonders  with  grey 
sateen.  The  idea  of  orange  blossom  and  white  veils 
had  been  abandoned  reluctantly  on  account  of  the  ex- 
pense of  cabs.  A  novelette  in  which  the  heroine  had 
stood  at  the  altar  in  "  a  modest  going-away  dress  "  had 
materially  assisted  this  decision.  Miriam  was  frankly 
tearful,  and  so  indeed  was  Annie,  but  with  laughter  as 
well  to  carry  it  off.  Mr.  Polly  heard  Annie  say  some- 
thing vague  about  never  getting  a  chance  because  of 
Miriam  always  sticking  about  at  home  like  a  cat  at  a 
mouse-hole,  that  became,  as  people  say,  food  for  thought. 
Mrs.  Larkins  was  from  the  first  flushed,  garrulous,  and 
wet  and  smeared  by  copious  weeping;  an  incredibly 
soaked  and  crumpled  and  used-up  pocket  handkerchief 


148         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

never  left  the  clutch  of  her  plump  red  hand.  "  Goo* 
•girls,  all  of  them,"  she  kept  on  saying  in  a  tremulous 
voice ;  "  such-goo-goo-goo-girls !  "  She  wetted  Mr.  Polly 
dreadfully  when  she  kissed  him.  Her  emotion  affected 
the  buttons  down  the  back  of  her  bodice,  and  almost  the 
last  filial  duty  Miriam  did  before  entering  on  her  new 
life  was  to  close  that  gaping  orifice  for  the  eleventh 
time.  Her  bonnet  was  small  and  ill-balanced,  black 
adorned  with  red  roses,  and  first  it  got  over  her  right 
eye  until  Annie  told  her  of  it,  and  then  she  pushed  it 
over  her  left  eye  and  looked  ferocious  for  a  space,  and 
after  that  baptismal  kissing  of  Mr.  Polly  the  delicate 
millinery  took  fright  and  climbed  right  up  to  the  back 
part  of  her  head  and  hung  on  there  by  a  pin,  and  flapped 
piteously  at  all  the  larger  waves  of  emotion  that  filled 
the  gathering.  Mr.  Polly  became  more  and  more  aware 
of  that  bonnet  as  time  went  on,  until  he  felt  for  it  like 
a  thing  alive.  Towards  the  end  it  had  yawning  fits. 

The  company  did  not  include  Mrs.  Johnson,  but 
Johnson  came  with  a  manifest  surreptitiousness  and 
backed  against  walls  and  watched  Mr.  Polly  with  doubt 
and  speculation  in  his  large  grey  eyes  and  whistled 
noiselessly  and  doubtful  on  the  edge  of  things.  He  was, 
so  to  speak,  to  be  best  man,  sotto  voce.  A  sprinkling 
of  girls  in  gay  hats  from  Miriam's  place  of  business  ap- 
peared in  church,  great  nudgers  all  of  them,  but  only 
two  came  on  afterwards  to  the  house.  Mrs.  Punt 
brought  her  son  with  his  ever-widening  mind,  it  was  his 
first  wedding,  and  a  Larkins  uncle,  a  Mr.  Voules,  a 


MIRIAM  149 

licenced  victualler,  very  kindly  drove  over  in  a  gig  from 
Sommershill  with  a  plump,  well-dressed  wife  to  give  the 
bride  away.  One  or  two  total  strangers  drifted  into  the 
church  and  sat  down  observantly  far  away. 

This  sprinkling  of  people  seemed  only  to  enhance  the 
cool  brown  emptiness  of  the  church,  the  rows  and  rows 
of  empty  pews,  disengaged  prayer-books  and  abandoned 
hassocks.  It  had  the  effect  of  a  preposterous  misfit. 
Johnson  consulted  with  a  thin-legged,  short-skirted 
verger  about  the  disposition  of  the  party.  The  officiat- 
ing clergy  appeared  distantly  in  the  doorway  of  the  ves- 
try, putting  on  his  surplice,  and  relapsed  into  a  con- 
templative cheek-scratching  that  was  manifestly  habitual. 
Before  the  bride  arrived  Mr.  Polly's  sense  of  the  church 
found  an  outlet  in  whispered  criticisms  of  ecclesiastical 
architecture  with  Johnson.  "  Early  Norman  arches^ 
eh  ?  "  he  said,  "  or  Perpendicular." 

"  Can't  say,"  said  Johnson. 

"  Telessated  pavements,  all  right." 

"  It's  well  laid  anyhow." 

"  Can't  say  I  admire  the  altar.  Scrappy  rather  with 
those  flowers." 

He  coughed  behind  his  hand  and  cleared  his  throat. 
At  the  back  of  his  mind  he  was  speculating  whether  flight 
at  this  eleventh  hour  would  be  criminal  or  merely  repre- 
hensible bad  taste.  A  murmur  from  the  nudgers  an- 
nounced the  arrival  of  the  bridal  party. 

The  little  procession  from  a  remote  door  became  one 
of  the  enduring  memories  of  Mr.  Polly's  life.  The  little- 


150         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

verger  had  bustled  to  meet  it,  and  arrange  it  according 
to  tradition  and  morality.  In  spite  of  Mrs.  Larkins' 
"  Don't  take  her  from  me  yet ! "  he  made  Miriam  go 
first  with  Mr.  Voules,  the  bridesmaids  followed  and 
then  himself  hopelessly  unable  to  disentangle  himself 
from  the  whispering  maternal  anguish  of  Mrs.  Larkins. 
Mrs.  Voules,  a  compact,  rounded  woman  with  a  square, 
expressionless  face,  imperturbable  dignity,  and  a  dress 
of  considerable  fashion,  completed  the  procession. 

Mr.  Polly's  eye  fell  first  upon  the  bride;  the  sight  of 
her  filled  him  with  a  curious  stir  of  emotion.  Alarm, 
desire,  affection,  respect — and  a  queer  element  of  re- 
luctant dislike  all  played  their  part  in  that  complex  eddy. 
The  grey  dress  made  her  a  stranger  to  him,  made  her 
stiff  and  commonplace,  she  was  not  even  the  rather  droop- 
ing form  that  had  caught  his  facile  sense  of  beauty  when 
he  had  proposed  to  her  in  the  Recreation  Ground.  There 
was  something  too  that  did  not  please  him  in  the  angle  of 
her  hat,  it  was  indeed  an  ill-conceived  hat  with  large 
aimless  rosettes  of  pink  and  grey.  Then  his  mind  passed 
to  Mrs.  Larkins  and  the  bonnet  that  was  to  gain  such  a 
hold  upon  him ;  it  seemed  to  be  flag-signalling  as  she 
advanced,  and  to  the  two  eager,  unrefined  sisters  he  was 
acquiring. 

A  freak  of  fancy  set  him  wondering  where  and  when 
in  the  future  a  beautiful  girl  with  red  hair  might  march 
along  some  splendid  aisle.  Never  mind !  He  became 
aware  of  Mr.  Voules. 

He  became  aware  of  Mr.  Voules  as  a  watchful,  blue 


MIRIAM  151 

eye  of  intense  forcefulness.  It  was  the  eye  of  a  man 
who  has  got  hold  of  a  situation.  He  was  a  fat,  short, 
red-faced  man  clad  in  a  tight-fitting  tail  coat  of  black 
and  white  check  with  a  coquettish  bow  tie  under  the  low- 
est of  a  number  of  crisp  little  red  chins.  He  held  the 
bride  under  his  arm  with  an  air  of  invincible  champion- 
ship, and  his  free  arm  flourished  a  grey  top  hat  of  an 
equestrian  type.  Mr.  Polly  instantly  learnt  from  the 
eye  that  Mr.  Voules  knew  all  about  his  longing  for 
flight.  Its  azure  pupil  glowed  with  disciplined  resolu- 
tion. It  said :  "  I've  come  to  give  this  girl  away,  and 
give  her  away  I  will.  I'm  here  now  and  things  have  to 
go  on  all  right.  So  don't  think  of  it  any  more  " — and  Mr. 
Polly  didn't.  A  faint  phantom  of  a  certain  "  lill'  dog  " 
that  had  hovered  just  beneath  the  threshold  of  conscious- 
ness vanished  into  black  impossibility.  Until  the  con- 
clusive moment  of  the  service  was  attained  the  eye  of 
Mr.  Voules  watched  Mr.  Polly  relentlessly,  and  then 
instantly  he  relieved  guard,  and  blew  his  nose  into  a 
voluminous  and  richly  patterned  handkerchief,  and 
sighed  and  looked  round  for  the  approval  and  sympathy 
/of  Mrs.  Voules,  and  nodded  to  her  brightly  like  one  who 
has  always  foretold  a  successful  issue  to  things.  Mr. 
Polly  felt  then  like  a  marionette  that  has  just  dropped 
off  its  wire.  But  it  was  long  before  that  release  arrived. 

He  became  aware  of  Miriam  breathing  close  to  him. 

"  Hullo !  "  he  said,  and  feeling  that  was  clumsy  and 
would  meet  the  eye's  disapproval :  "  Grey  dress — suits 
you  no  end." 


152         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

Miriam's  eyes  shone  under  her  hat-brim. 

"  Not  reely !  "  she  whispered. 

"  You're  all  right,"  he  said  with  the  feeling  of  obser- 
vation and  criticism  stiffening  his  lips.  He  cleared  his 
throat. 

The  verger's  hand  pushed  at  him  from  behind.  Some- 
one was  driving  Miriam  towards  the  altar  rail  and  the 
clergyman.  "  We're  in  for  it,"  said  Mr.  Polly  to  her 
sympathetically.  "Where?  Here?  Right  O." 

He  was  interested  for  a  moment  or  so  in  something  in- 
describably habitual  in  the  clergyman's  pose.  What  a 
lot  of  weddings  he  must  have  seen !  Sick  he  must  be  of 
them! 

"  Don't  let  your  attention  wander,"  said  the  eye. 

"  Got  the  ring  ?  "  whispered  Johnson. 

"  Pawned  it  yesterday,"  answered  Mr.  Polly  and  then 
•had  a  dreadful  moment  under  that  pitiless  scrutiny  while 
A\Q  felt  in  the  wrong  waistcoat  pocket.  .  .  . 

The  officiating  clergy  sighed  deeply,  began,  and  mar- 
ried them  wearily  and  without  any  hitch. 

" D'b' loved,  we  gath'd  'gether  sight  o'  Card  'n  face  this 
con' gallon  join  'gather  Man,  Worn'  Holy  Mat'my  which 
is  on'bl  state  stooted  by  Card  in  times  man's  inno- 
cency.  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Polly's  thoughts  wandered  wide  and  far,  and  once 
again  something  like  a  cold  hand  touched  his  heart,  and 
he  saw  a  sweet  face  in  sunshine  under  the  shadow  of 
trees. 

Someone  was  nudging  him.     It  was  Johnson's  finger 


MIRIAM  153 

diverted  his  eyes  to  the  crucial  place  in  the  prayer-book 
to  which  they  had  come. 

"  Wiltou  lover,  cumfer,  oner,  keeper  sickness  and 
health  ..." 

"Say 'I  will.'" 

Mr.  Polly  moistened  his  lips.  "  I  will,"  he  said 
hoarsely. 

Miriam,  nearly  inaudible,  answered  some  similar  de- 
mand. 

Then  the  clergyman  said :  "  Who  gif  s  Worn  married 
to  this  man?  " 

"  Well,  I'm  doing  that,"  said  Mr.  Voules  in  a  refresh- 
ingly full  voice  and  looking  round  the  church.  "You 
see,  me  and  Martha  Larkins  being  cousins — • — " 

He  was  silenced  by  the  clergyman's  rapid  grip  direct- 
ing the  exchange  of  hands. 

"  Pete  arf  rne,"  said  the  clergyman  to  Mr.  Polly. 
"Take  thee  Mirum  wed  wife " 

"  Take  thee  Mirum  wed'  wife,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Have  hold  this  day  ford." 

"  Have  hold  this  day  ford." 

"  Betvvorse,  richpoo' " 

"  Bet  worsh,  richpoo'.     .     .     ." 

Then  came  Miriam's  turn. 

"Lego  hands,"  said  the  clergyman;  "got  the  ring? 
No !  On  the  book.  So !  Here !  Pete  arf  me,  '  withis 
ring  Ivy  wed.'  * 

"  Withis  ring  Ivy  wed " 

So  it  went  on,  blurred  and  hurried,  like  the  momentary 


154         THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

vision  of  an  utterly  beautiful  thing  seen  through  the 
smoke  of  a  passing  train.  .  .  . 

"  Now,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Voules  at  last,  gripping  Mr. 
Polly's  elbow  tightly,  "  you've  got  to  sign  the  registry, 
and  there  you  are !  Done !  " 

Before  him  stood  Miriam,  a  little  stiffly,  the  hat  with  a 
slight  rake  across  her  forehead,  and  a  kind  of  question- 
ing hesitation  in  her  face.  Mr.  Voules  urged  him  past 
her. 

It  was  astounding.     She  was  his  wife! 

And  for  some  reason  Miriam  and  Mrs.  Larkins  were 
sobbing,  and  Annie  was  looking  grave.  Hadn't  they 
after  all  wanted  him  to  marry  her?  Because  if  that  was 
the  case ! 

He  became  aware  for  the  first  time  of  the  presence  of 
Uncle  Pentstemon  in  the  background,  but  approaching, 
wearing  a  tie  of  a  light  mineral  blue  colour,  and  grinning 
and  sucking  enigmatically  and  judiciously  round  his 
principal  tooth. 

V 

It  was  in  the  vestry  that  the  force  of  Mr.  Voules' 
personality  began  to  show  at  its  true  value.  He  seemed 
to  open  out  and  spread  over  things  directly  the  restraints 
of  the  ceremony  were  at  an  end. 

"  Everything,"  he  said  to  the  clergyman,  "  excellent." 
He  also  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Larkins,  who  clung  to 
him  for  a  space,  and  kissed  Miriam  on  the  cheek.  "  First 
kiss  for  me,"  he  said,  "  anyhow." 


MIRIAM  155 

He  led  Mr.  Polly  to  the  register  by  the  arm,  and  then 
got  chairs  for  Mrs.  Larkins  and  his  wife.  He  then 
turned  on  Miriam.  "  Now,  young  people,"  he  said. 
"  One !  or  7  shall  again." 

"  That's  right !  "  said  Mr.  Voules.  "  Same  again, 
Miss." 

Mr.  Polly  was  overcome  with  modest  confusion,  and 
turning,  found  a  refuge  from  this  publicity  in  the  arms 
of  Mrs.  Larkins.  Then  in  a  state  of  profuse  moisture 
he  was  assaulted  and  kissed  by  Annie  and  Minnie,  who 
were  immediately  kissed  upon  some  indistinctly  stated 
grounds  by  Mr.  Voules,  who  then  kissed  the  entirely 
impassive  Mrs.  Voules  and  smacked  his  lips  and  re- 
marked :  "  Home  again  safe  and  sound !  "  Then  with  a 
strange  harrowing  cry  Mrs.  Larkins  seized  upon  and  be- 
dewed Miriam  with  kisses,  Annie  and  Minnie  kissed  each 
other,  and  Johnson  went  abruptly  to  the  door  of  the 
vestry  and  stared  into  the  church — no  doubt  with  ideas 
of  sanctuary  in  his  mind.  "  Like  a  bit  of  a  kiss  round 
sometimes,"  said  Mr.  Voules,  and  made  a  kind  of  hissing 
noise  with  his  teeth,  and  suddenly  smacked  his  hands 
together  with  great  eclat  several  times.  Meanwhile  the 
clergyman  scratched  his  cheek  with  one  hand  and  fiddled 
the  pen  with  the  other  and  the  verger  coughed  protest- 
ingly. 

"  The  dog  cart's  just  outside,"  said  Mr.  Voules.  "  No 
walking  home  to-day  for  the  bride,  Mam." 

"  Not  going  to  drive  us?  "  cried  Annie. 

"  The  happy  pair,  Miss.     Your  turn  soon." 


156         THE   HISTORY.   OF  MR.   POLLY 

"  Get  out !  "  said  Annie.     "  I  shan't  marry — ever." 

"  You  won't  be  able  to  help  it.  You'll  have  to  do  it — 
just  to  disperse  the  crowd."  Mr.  Voules  laid  his  hand  on 
Mr.  Polly's  shoulder.  "  The  bridegroom  gives  his  arm 
to  the  bride.  Hands  across  and  down  the  middle. 
Prump.  Prump,  Perump-pump-pump-pump." 

Mr.  Polly  found  himself  and  the  bride  leading  the  way 
towards  the  western  door. 

Mrs.  Larkins  passed  close  to  Uncle  Pentstemon,  sob- 
bing too  earnestly  to  be  aware  of  him.  "  Such  a  goo- 
goo-goo-girl  ! "  she  sobbed. 

"  Didn't  think  I'd  come,  did  you  ?  "  said  Uncle  Pentste- 
mon, but  she  swept  past  him,  too  busy  with  the  expres- 
sion of  her  feelings  to  observe  him. 

"  She  didn't  think  I'd  come,  I  lay,"  said  Uncle  Pentste- 
mon, a  little  foiled,  but  effecting  an  auditory  lodgment 
upon  Johnson. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Johnson  uncomfortably.  "  I 
suppose  you  were  asked.  How  are  you  getting  on  ?  " 

"  I  was  arst,"  said  Uncle  Pentstemon,  and  brooded  for 
a  moment. 

"  I  goes  about  seeing  wonders,"  he  added,  and  then 
in  a  sort  of  enhanced  undertone :  "  One  of  'er  girls  get- 
tin'  married.  That's  what  I  mean  by  wonders.  Lord's 
goodness !  Wow !  " 

"  Nothing  the  matter?  "  asked  Johnson. 

"  Got  it  in  the  back  for  a  moment.  Going  to  be  a 
change  of  weather  I  suppose,"  said  Uncle  Pentstemon. 
"  I  brought  'er  a  nice  present,  too,  what  I  got  in  this 


MIRIAM  157 

passel.  Vallyble  old  tea  caddy  that  uset'  tie  my  mother's. 
What  I  kep'  my  baccy  in  for  years  and  years — till  the 
hinge  at  the  back  got  broke.  It  ain't  been  no  use  to  me 
'particular  since,  so  thinks  I,  drat  it !  I  may  as  well  give 
it  'er  as  not.  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Polly  found  himself  emerging  from  the  western 
door. 

Outside,  a  crowd  of  half-a-dozen  adults  and  about  fifty 
children  had  collected,  and  hailed  the  approach  of  the 
newly  wedded  couple  with  a  faint,  indeterminate  cheer. 
All  the  children  were  holding  something  in  little  bags, 
and  his  attention  was  caught  by  the  expression  of  vin- 
dictive concentration  upon  the  face  of  a  small  big-eared 
boy  in  the  foreground.  He  didn't  for  the  moment  realise 
what  these  things  might  import.  Then  he  received  a 
stinging  handful  of  rice  in  the  ear,  and  a  great  light 
shone. 

"  Not  yet,  you  young  fool ! "  he  heard  Mr.  Voules  say- 
ing behind  him,  and  then  a  second  handful  spoke  against 
his  hat. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Mr.  Voules  with  increasing  emphasis, 
and  Mr.  Polly  became  aware  that  he  and  Miriam  were 
the  focus  of  two  crescents  of  small  boys,  each  with  the 
light  of  massacre  in  his  eyes  and  a  grubby  fist  clutching 
into  a  paper  bag  for  rice ;  and  that  Mr.  Voules  was  ward- 
ing off  probable  discharges  with  a  large  red  hand. 

The  dog  cart  was  in  charge  of  a  loafer,  and  the  horse 
and  the  whip  were  adorned  with  white  favours,  and  the 
back  seat  was  confused  but  not  untenable  with  hampers. 


158         THE   HISTORY   OF   MR.   POLLY 

"  Up  we  go,"  said  Mr.  Voules,  "  old  birds  in  front  and 
young  ones  behind."  An  ominous  group  of  ill-resirained 
rice-throwers  followed  them  up  as  they  mounted. 

"  Get  your  handkerchief  for  your  face,"  said  Mr.  Polly 
to  his  bride,  and  took  the  place  next  the  pavement  with 
considerable  heroism,  held  on,  gripped  his  hat,  shut  his 
eyes  and  prepared  for  the  worst.  "  Off !  "  said  Mr. 
Voules,  and  a  concentrated  fire  came  stinging  Mr.  Polly's 
face. 

The  horse  shied,  and  when  the  bridegroom  could  look 
at  the  world  again  it  was  manifest  the  dog  cart  had  just 
missed  an  electric  tram  by  a  hairsbreadth,  and  far  away 
outside  the  church  railings  the  verger  and  Johnson  were 
battling  with  an  active  crowd  of  small  boys  for  the  life 
of  the  rest  of  the  Larkins  family.  Mrs.  Punt  and  her 
son  had  escaped  across  the  road,  the  son  trailing  and 
stumbling  at  the  end  of  a  remorseless  arm,  but  Uncle 
Pentstemon,  encumbered  by  the  tea-caddy,  was  the  cen- 
tre of  a  little  circle  of  his  own,  and  appeared  to  be  drat- 
ting  them  all  very  heartily.  Remoter,  a  policeman  ap- 
proached with  an  air  of  tranquil  unconsciousness. 

"  Steady,  you  idiot.  Stead-y!  "  cried  Mr.  Voules,  and 
then  over  his  shoulder :  "  I  brought  that  rice !  I  like 
old  customs!  Whoa!  Stead-y." 

The  dog  cart  swerved  violently,  and  then,  evoking  a 
shout  of  groundless  alarm  from  a  cyclist,  took  a  corner, 
and  the  rest  of  the  wedding  party  was  hidden  from  Mr. 
Polly's  eyes. 


MIRIAM  159 


VI 

"  We'll  get  the  stuff  into  the  house  before  the  old  gal 
comes  along,"  said  Mr.  Voules,  "  if  you'll  hold  the  hoss." 

"  How  about  the  key  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Polly. 

"  I  got  the  key,  coming." 

And  while  Mr.  Polly  held  the  sweating  horse  and 
dodged  the  foam  that  dripped  from  its  bit,  the  house  ab- 
sorbed Miriam  and  Mr.  Voules  altogether.  Mr.  Voules 
carried  in  the  various  hampers  he  had  brought  with  him, 
and  finally  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

For  some  time  Mr.  Polly  remained  alone  with  his 
charge  in  the  little  blind  alley  outside  the  Larkins'  house, 
while  the  neighbours  scrutinised  him  from  behind  their 
blinds.  He  reflected  that  he  was  a  married  man,  that  he 
must  look  very  like  a  fool,  that  the  head  of  a  horse  is  a 
silly  shape  and  its  eye  a  bulger;  he  wondered  what  the 
horse  thought  of  him,  and  whether  it  really  liked  being 
held  and  patted  on  the  neck  or  whether  it  only  submitted 
out  of  contempt.  Did  it  know  he  was  married?  Then 
he  wondered  if  the  clergyman  had  thought  him  much  of 
an  ass,  and  then  whether  the  individual  lurking  behind 
the  lace  curtains  of  the  front  room  next  door  was  a  man 
or  a  woman.  A  door  opened  over  the  way,  and  an  elderly 
gentleman  in  a  kind  of  embroidered  fez  appeared  smok- 
ing a  pipe  with  a  quiet  satisfied  expression.  He  regarded 
Mr.  Polly  for  some  time  with  mild  but  sustained  curiosity. 
Finally  he  called:  "Hi!" 


160         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY. 

"Hullo!"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  You  needn't  'old  that  'orse,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"  Spirited  beast,"  said  Mr.  Polly.  "  And,"— with  some 
faint  analogy  to  ginger  beer  in  his  mind — "  he's  uo  to- 
day." 

"  'E  won't  turn  'isself  round,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
"  anyow.  And  there  ain't  no  way  through  for  'im  to 
go." 

"Verbum  sap,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  abandoned  the 
horse  and  turned  to  the  door.  It  opened  to  him  just  as 
Mrs.  Larkins  on  the  arm  of  Johnson,  followed  by  Annie, 
Minnie,  two  friends,  Mrs.  Punt  and  her  son  and  at  a 
slight  distance  Uncle  Pentstemon,  appeared  round  the 
corner. 

"  They're  coming,"  he  said  to  Miriam,  and  put  an  arm 
about  her  and  gave  her  a  kiss. 

She  was  kissing  him  back  when  they  were  startled 
violently  by  the  shying  of  two  empty  hampers  into  the 
passage.  Then  Mr.  Voules  appeared  holding  a  third. 

"  Here !  you'll  'ave  plenty  of  time  for  that  presently," 
he  said,  "  get  these  hampers  away  before  the  old  girl 
comes.  I  got  a  cold  collation  here  to  make  her  sit  up. 
My  eye  I " 

Miriam  took  the  hampers,  and  Mr.  Polly  under  com- 
pulsion from  Mr.  Voules  went  into  the  little  front  room. 
A  profuse  pie  and  a  large  ham  had  been  added  to  the 
modest  provision  of  Mrs.  Larkins,  and  a  number  of 
select-looking  bottles  shouldered  the  bottle  of  sherry  and 
the  bottle  of  port  she  had  got  to  grace  the  feast.  They 


MIRIAM  161 

certainly  went  better  with  the  iced  wedding  cake  in  the 
tniddle.  Mrs.  Voules,  still  impassive,  stood  by  the  win- 
dow regarding  these  things  with  a  faint  approval. 

"  Makes  it  look  a  bit  thicker,  eh  ?  "  said  Mr.  Voules, 
and  blew  out  both  his  cheeks  and  smacked  his  hands  to- 
gether violently  several  times.  "  Surprise  the  old  girl  no 
end." 

He  stood  back  and  smiled  and  bowed  with  arms  ex- 
tended as  the  others  came  clustering  at  the  door. 

"  Why,  Un-cle  Voules ! "  cried  Annie,  with  a  rising 
note. 

It  was  his  reward. 

And  then  came  a  great  wedging  and  squeezing  and 
crowding  into  the  little  room.  Nearly  everyone  was 
hungry,  and  eyes  brightened  at  the  sight  of  the  pie  and 
the  ham  and  the  convivial  array  of  bottles.  "  Sit  down 
everyone,"  cried  Mr.  Voules,  "  leaning  against  anything 
counts  as  sitting,  and  makes  it  easier  to  shake  down  the 
grub!" 

The  two  friends  from  Miriam's  place  of  business  came 
into  the  room  among  the  first,  and  then  wedged  them- 
selves so  hopelessly  against  Johnson  in  an  attempt  to  get 
out  again  and  take  off  their  things  upstairs  that  they 
abandoned  the  attempt.  Amid  the  struggle  Mr.  Polly 
saw  Uncle  Pentstemon  relieve  himself  of  his  parcel  by 
giving  it  to  the  bride.  "  Here ! "  he  said  and  handed  it 
to  her.  "Weddin'  present,"  he  explained,  and  added 
with  a  confidential  chuckle,  "  /  never  thought  I'd  'ave  to 
give  you  one — ever." 


162         THE  HISTORY.   OF.  MR.   POLLY 

"  Who  says  steak  and  kidney  pie  ?  "  bawled  Mr.  Voules. 
"  Who  says  steak  and  kidney  pie  ?  You  'ave  a  drop  of 
old  Tommy,  Martha.  That's  what  you  want  to  steady 
you.  ...  Sit  down  everyone  and  don't  all  speak 
at  once.  Who  says  steak  and  kidney  pie?  .  .  ." 

"  Vocificeratious,"  whispered  Mr.  Polly.  "  Convivial 
vocificerations." 

"  Bit  of  'am  with  it,"  shouted  Mr.  Voules,  poising  a 
slice  of  ham  on  his  knife.  "  Anyone  'ave  a  bit  of  'am 
with  it?  Won't  that  little  man  of  yours,  Mrs.  Punt — 
won't  'e  'ave  a  bit  of  '3m?  .  .  ." 

"  And  now  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Voules, 
still  standing  and  dominating  the  crammed  roomful, 
"  now  you  got  your  plates  filled  and  something  I  can  war- 
rant you  good  in  your  glasses,  wot  about  drinking  the 
'ealth  of  the  bride?" 

"  Eat  a  bit  fust,"  said  Uncle  Pentstemon,  speaking 
with  his  mouth  full,  amidst  murmurs  of  applause.  "  Eat 
a  bit  fust." 

So  they  did,  and  the  plates  clattered  and  the  glasses 
chinked. 

Mr.  Polly  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  Johnson  for 
a  moment. 

"  In  for  it,"  said  Mr.  Polly  cheeringly.  "  Cheer  up, 
O'  Man,  and  peck  a  bit.  No  reason  why  you  shouldn't 
eat,  you  know." 

The  Punt  boy  stood  on  Mr.  Polly's  boots  for  a  minute, 
struggling  violently  against  the  compunction  of  Mrs. 
Punt's  grip. 


MIRIAM  163 

"  Pie,"  said  the  Punt  boy,  "  Pie ! " 

"  You  sit  'ere  and  'ave  'am,  my  lord !  "  said  Mrs.  Punt, 
prevailing.  "  Pie  you  can't  'ave  and  you  won't." 

"  Lor  bless  my  heart,  Mrs.  Punt ! "  protested  Mr. 
Voules,  "  let  the  boy  'ave  a  bit  if  he  wants  it — wedding 
and  all ! " 

"  You  'aven't  'ad  'im  'sick  'on  'your  'ands,  Uncle 
Voules,"  said  Mrs.  Punt.  "Else  you  wouldn't  want  to 
humour  his  fancies  as  you  do.  .  .  ." 

"  I  can't  help  feeling  it's  a  mistake,  O'  Man,"  said 
Johnson,  in  a  confidential  undertone.  "  I  can't  help  feel- 
ing you've  been  Rash.  Let's  hope  for  the  best." 

"  Always  glad  of  good  wishes,  O'  Man,"  said  Mr. 
Polly.  "  You'd  better  have  a  drink  of  something.  Any- 
how, sit  down  to  it." 

Johnson  subsided  gloomily,  and  Mr.  Polly  secured 
some  ham  and  carried  it  off  and  sat  himself  down  on  the 
sewing  machine  on  the  floor  in  the  corner  to  devour  it. 
He  was  hungry,  and  a  little  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the 
•company  by  Mrs.  Voules'  hat  and  back,  and  he  occupied 
himself  for  a  time  with  ham  and  his  own  thoughts.  He 
became  aware  of  a  series  of  jangling  concussions  on  the 
table.  He  craned  his  neck  and  discovered  that  Mr. 
Voules  was  standing  up  and  leaning  forward  over  the 
table  in  the  manner  distinctive  of  after-dinner  speeches, 
tapping  upon  the  table  with  a  black  bottle.  "  Ladies  and 
gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Voules,  raising  his  glass  solemnly 
in  the  empty  desert  of  sound  he  had  made,  and  paused  for 
a  second  or  so.  "  Ladies  and  gentlemen, — The  Bride." 


164         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

He  searched  his  mind  for  some  suitable  wreath  of  speech, 
and  brightened  at  last  with  discovery.  "  Here's  Luck 
to  her !  "  he  said  at  last. 

"  Here's  Luck !  "  said  Johnson  hopelessly  but  reso- 
lutely, and  raised  his  glass.  Everybody  murmured: 
"  Here's  luck." 

"  Luck ! "  said  Mr.  Polly,  unseen  in  his  corner,  lifting 
a  forkful  of  ham. 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Voules  with  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief at  having  brought  off  a  difficult  operation.  "  And 
now,  who's  for  a  bit  more  pie  ?  " 

For  a  time  conversation  was  fragmentary  again.  But 
presently  Mr.  Voules  rose  from  his  chair  again;  he  had 
subsided  with  a  contented  smile  after  his  first  oratorical 
effort,  and  produced  a  silence  by  renewed  hammering. 
"  Ladies  and  gents,"  he  said,  "  fill  up  for  the  second 
toast : — the  happy  Bridegroom !  "  He  stood  for  half  a 
minute  searching  his  mind  for  the  apt  phrase  that  came 
at  last  in  a  rush.  "  Here's  (hie)  luck  to  him"  said  Mr. 
Voules. 

"  Luck  to  him !  "  said  everyone,  and  Mr.  Polly,  stand- 
ing up  behind  Mrs.  Voules,  bowed  amiably,  amidst  en- 
thusiasm. 

"  He  may  say  what  he  likes,"  said  Mrs.  Larkins,  "  he's 
got  luck.  That  girl's  a  treasure  of  treasures,  and  always 
has  been  ever  since  she  tried  to  nurse  her  own  little  sister, 
being  but  three  at  the  time,  and  fell  the  full  flight  of 
stairs  from  top  to  bottom,  no  hurt  that  any  outward  eye 
'as  even  seen,  but  always  ready  and  helpful,  always  tidy- 


MIRIAM  165 

ing  and  busy.  A  treasure,  I  must  say,  and  a  treasure  I 
will  say,  giving  no  more  than  her  due.  .  .  ." 

She  was  silenced  altogether  by  a  rapping  sound  that 
would  not  be  denied.  Mr.  Voules  had  been  struck  by  a 
fresh  idea  and  was  standing  up  and  hammering  with  the 
bottie  again. 

"  The  third  Toast,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said ;  "  fill 
up,  please.  The  Mother  of  the  bride.  I — er.  .  .  . 
Uoo.  .  .  .  Ere!  .  .  .  Ladies  and  gem,  'Ere's 
Luck  to 'er!  .  .  ." 

VII 

The  dingy  little  room  was  stuffy  and  crowded  to  its 
utmost  limit,  and  Mr.  Polly's  skies  were  dark  with  the 
sense  of  irreparable  acts.  Everybody  seemed  noisy  and 
greedy  and  doing  foolish  things.  Miriam,  still  in  that 
unbecoming  hat — for  presently  they  had  to  start  off  to 
the  station  together — sat  just  beyond  Mrs.  Punt  and  her 
son,  doing  her  share  in  the  hospitalities,  and  ever  and 
again  glancing  at  him  with  a  deliberately  encouraging 
smile.  Once  she  leant  over  the  back  of  the  chair  to  him 
and  whispered  cheeringly :  "  Soon  be  together  now." 
Next  to  her  sat  Johnson,  profoundly  silent,  and  then 
Annie,  talking  vigorously  to  a  friend.  Uncle  Pentstemon 
was  eating  voraciously  opposite,  but  with  a  kindling  eye 
for  Annie.  Mrs.  Larkins  sat  next  to  Mr.  Voules.  She 
was  unable  to  eat  a  mouthful,  she  declared,  it  would 
choke  her,  but  ever  and  again  Mr.  Voules  wooed  her  to 
swallow  a  little  drop  of  liquid  refreshment. 


166         THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

There  seemed  a  lot  of  rice  upon  everybody,  in  their 
hats  and  hair  and  the  folds  of  their  garments. 

Presently  Mr.  Voules  was  hammering  the  table  for  the 
'fourth  time  in  the  interests  of  the  Best  Man.  .  .  . 

All  feasts  come  to  an  end  at  last,  and  the  break-up  of 
things  was  precipitated  by  alarming  symptoms  on  the 
part  of  Master  Punt.  He  was  taken  out  hastily  after  a 
whispered  consultation,  and  since  he  had  got  into  the 
corner  between  the  fireplace  and  the  cupboard,  that  meant 
everyone  moving  to  make  way  for  him.  Johnson  took 
the  opportunity  to  say,  "  Well — so  long,"  to  anyone  who 
might  be  listening,  and  disappear.  Mr.  Polly  found  him- 
self smoking  a  cigarette  and  walking  up  and  down  out- 
side in  the  company  of  Uncle  Pentstemon,  while  Mr. 
Voules  replaced  bottles  in  hampers  and  prepared  for  de- 
parture, and  the  womenkind  of  the  party  crowded  up- 
stairs with  the  bride.  Mr.  Polly  felt  taciturn,  but  the 
events  of  the  day  had  stirred  the  mind  of  Uncle  Pentste- 
mon to  speech.  And  so  he  spoke,  discursively  and  dis- 
connectedly, a  little  heedless  of  his  listener  as  wise  old 
men  will. 

"  They  do  say,"  said  Uncle  Pentstemon,  "  one  funeral 
makes  many.  This  time  it's  a  wedding.  But  it's  all  very 
much  of  a  muchness,"  said  Uncle  Pentstemon.  .  .  . 

"  'Am  do  get  in  my  teeth  nowadays,"  said  Uncle 
Pentstemon,  "  I  can't  understand  it.  'Tisn't  like  there 
was  nubbicks  or  strings  or  such  in  'am.  It's  a  plain 
food. 

"  That's  better,"  he  said  at  last. 


MIRIAM  167 

"  You  got  to  get  married,"  said  Uncle  Pentstemon. 
"  Some  has.  Some  hain't.  I  done  it  long  before  I  was 
your  age.  It  hain't  for  me  to  blame  you.  You  can't  'elp 
being  the  marrying  sort  any  more  than  me.  It's  nat'ral 
— like  poaching  or  drinking  or  wind  on  the  stummik. 
You  can't  'elp  it  and  there  you  are !  As  for  the  good  of 
it,  there  ain't  no  particular  good  in  it  as  I  can  see.  It's 
a  toss  up.  The  hotter  come,  the  sooner  cold,  but  they  all 
gets  tired  of  it  sooner  or  later.  ...  I  hain't  no 
grounds  to  complain.  Two  I've  'ad  and  berried,  and 
might  'ave  'ad  a  third,  and  never  no  worrit  with  kids — 
never.  .  .  ." 

"  You  done  well  not  to  'ave  the  big  gal.  I  will  say 
that  for  ye.  She's  a  gad-about  grinny,  she  is,  if  ever 
was.  A  gad-about  grinny.  Mucked  up  my  mushroom 
bed  to  rights,  she  did,  and  I  'aven't  forgot  it.  Got  the 
feet  of  a  centipede,  she  'as — all  over  everything  and 
neither  with  your  leave  nor  by  your  leave.  Like  a  stray 
'en  in  a  pea  patch.  Cluck!  cluck!  Trying  to  laugh  it 
off.  /  laughed  'er  off,  I  did.  Dratted  lumpin  bag- 
gage! .  .  ." 

For  a  while  he  mused  malevolently  upon  Annie,  and 
routed  out  a  reluctant  crumb  from  some  coy  sitting-out 
place  in  his  tooth. 

"  Wimmin's  a  toss  up,"  said  Uncle  Pentstemon. 
"  Prize  packets  they  are,  and  you  can't  tell  what's  in  'em 
till  you  took  'em  'ome  and  undone  'em.  Never  was  a 
bachelor  married  yet  that  didn't  buy  a  pig  in  a  poke. 
Never.  Marriage  seems  to  change  the  very  natures  in 


168         THE   HISTORY,   OF  MR.   POLLY 

'em  through  and  through.  You  can't  tell  what  they 
won't  turn  into — nohow. 

"  I  seen  the  nicest  girls  go  wrong,"  said  Uncle  Pentste- 
mon,  and  added  with  unusual  thought  fulness,  "  Not  that 
I  mean  you  got  one  of  that  sort." 

He  sent  another  crumb  on  to  its  long  home  with  a 
sucking,  encouraging  noise. 

"The  wust  sort's  the  grizzler,"  Uncle  Pentstemon  re- 
sumed. "  If  ever  I'd  'ad  a  grizzler  I'd  up  and  'it  'er  on 
the  'ed  with  sumpthin'  pretty  quick.  I  don't  think  I 
could  abide  a  grizzler,"  said  Uncle  Pentstemon.  "  I'd 
liefer  'ave  a  lump-about  like  that  other  gal.  I  would  in- 
deed. I  lay  I'd  make  'er  stop  laughing  after  a  bit  for  all 
'er  airs.  And  mind  where  her  clumsy  great  feet 
went.  .  .  . 

"  A  man's  got  to  tackle  'em,  whatever  they  be,"  said 
Uncle  Pentstemon,  summing  up  the  shrewd  observation 
of  an  old-world  life  time.  "  Good  or  bad,"  said  Uncle 
Pentstemon  raising  his  voice  fearlessly,  "  a  man's  got  to 
tackle  'em." 

VIII 

At  last  it  was  time  for  the  two  young  people  to  catch 
the  train  for  Waterloo  en  route  for  Fishbourne.  They 
had  to  hurry,  and  as  a  concluding  glory  of  matrimony 
they  travelled  second-class,  and  were  seen  off  by  all  the 
rest  of  the  party  except  the  Punts,  Master  Punt  being 
now  beyond  any  question  unwell. 

"  Off !  "    The  train  moved  out  of  the  station. 


MIRIAM  169 

Mr.  Polly  remained  waving  his  hat  and  Mrs.  Polly 
her  handkerchief  until  they  were  hidden  under  the  bridge. 
The  dominating  figure  to  the  last  was  Mr.  Voules.  He 
had  followed  them  along  the  platform  waving  the  eques- 
trian grey  hat  and  kissing  his  hand  to  the  bride. 

They  subsided  into  their  seats. 

"  Got  a  compartment  to  ourselves  anyhow,"  said  Mrs. 
Polly  after  a  pause. 

Silence  for  a  moment. 

"  The  rice  'e  must  'ave  bought.    Pounds  and  pounds ! " 

Mr.  Polly  felt  round  his  collar  at  the  thought. 

"  Ain't  you  going  to  kiss  me,  Elfrid,  now  we're  alone 
together  ? " 

He  roused  himself  to  sit  forward  hands  on  knees, 
cocked  his  hat  over  one  eye,  and  assumed  an  expression 
of  avidity  becoming  to  the  occasion. 

"  Never ! "  he  said.  "  Ever !  "  and  feigned  to  be  select- 
ing a  place  to  kiss  with  great  discrimination. 

"  Come  here,"  he  said,  and  drew  her  to  him. 

"  Be  careful  of  my  'at,"  said  Mrs.  Polly,  yielding  awk- 
wardly. 


THE  LITTLE  SHOP  AT  FISHBOURNE 


CHAPTER   THE   SEVENTH 

THE   LITTLE  SHOP  AT  FISHBOURNE 


FOR  fifteen  years  Mr.  Polly  was  a  respectable  shop- 
keeper in  Fishbourne. 
Years  they  were  in  which  every  day  was  tedious, 
and  when  they  were  gone  it  was  as  if  they  had  gone  in  a 
flash.  But  now  Mr.  Polly  had  good  looks  no  more,  he 
was  as  I  have  described  him  in  the  beginning  of  this 
story,  thirty-seven  and  fattish  in  a  not  very  healthy  way, 
dull  and  yellowish  about  the  complexion,  and  with  dis- 
contented wrinklings  round  his  eyes.  He  sat  on  the  stile 
above  Fishbourne  and  cried  to  the  Heavens  above  him: 
"Oh!  Roo-o-o-tten  Be-e-astly  Silly  Hole!"  And  he 
wore  a  rather  shabby  black  morning  coat  and  vest,  and 
his  tie  was  richly  splendid,  being  from  stock,  and  his  golf 
cap  aslant  over  one  eye. 

Fifteen  years  ago,  and  it  might  have  seemed  to  you 
that  the  queer  little  flower  of  Mr.  Polly's  imagination 
must  be  altogether  withered  and  dead,  and  with  no  living 
seed  left  in  any  part  of  him.  But  indeed  it  still  lived  as 
an  insatiable  hunger  for  bright  and  delightful  experi- 
ences, for  the  gracious  aspects  of  things,  for  beauty.  He 

173 


174         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

still  read  books  when  he  had  a  chance,  books  that  told  o£ 
glorious  places  abroad  and  glorious  times,  that  wrung  a 
rich  humour  from  life  and  contained  the  delight  of  words 
freshly  and  expressively  grouped.  But  alas !  there  are 
not  many  such  books,  and  for  the  newspapers  and  the 
cheap  fiction  that  abounded  more  and  more  in  the  world 
Mr.  Polly  had  little  taste.  There  was  no  epithet  in  them. 
And  there  was  no  one  to  talk  to,  as  he  loved  to  talk.  And 
he  had  to  mind  his  shop. 

It  was  a  reluctant  little  shop  from  the  beginning. 

He  had  taken  it  to  escape  the  doom  of  Johnson's  choice 
and  because  Fishbourne  had  a  hold  upon  his  imagination. 
He  had  disregarded  the  ill-built  cramped  rooms  behind 
it  in  which  he  would  have  to  lurk  and  live,  the  relentless 
limitations  of  its  dimensions,  the  inconvenience  of  an 
underground  kitchen  that  must  necessarily  be  the  living- 
room  in  winter,  the  narrow  yard  behind  giving  upon  the 
yard  of  the  Royal  Fishbourne  Hotel,  the  tiresome  sitting 
and  waiting  for  custom,  the  restricted  prospects  of  trade. 
He  had  visualised  himself  and  Miriam  first  as  at  break- 
fast on  a  clear  bright  winter  morning  amidst  a  tremen- 
dous smell  of  bacon,  and  then  as  having  muffins  for  tea. 
He  had  also  thought  of  sitting  on  the  beach  on  Sunday 
afternoons  and  of  going  for  a  walk  in  the  country  behind 
the  town  and  picking  marguerites  and  poppies.  But,  in 
fact,  Miriam  and  he  were  extremely  cross  at  breakfast, 
and  it  didn't  run  to  muffins  at  tea.  And  she  didn't  think 
it  looked  well,  she  said,  to  go  trapesing  about  the  country 
on  Sundays. 


THE   LITTLE   SHOP  AT  FISH  BOURNE      175 

It  was  unfortunate  that  Miriam  never  took  to  the 
house  from  the  first.  She  did  not  like  it  when  she  saw 
it,  and  liked  it  less  as  she  explored  it.  "  There's  too 
many  stairs,"  she  said,  "  and  the  coal  being  indoors  will 
make  a  lot  of  work." 

"  Didn't  think  of  that,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  following  her 
round. 

"  It'll  be  a  hard  house  to  keep  clean,"  said  Miriam. 

"  White  paint's  all  very  well  in  its  way,"  said  Miriam, 
"  but  it  shows  the  dirt  something  fearful.  Better  'ave  'ad 
it  nicely  grained." 

"  There's  a  kind  of  place  here,"  said  Mr.  Polly, 
"  where  we  might  have  some  flowers  in  pots." 

"  Not  me,"  said  Miriam.  "  I've  'ad  trouble  enough 
with  Minnie  and  'er  musk.  .  .  ." 

They  stayed  for  a  week  in  a  cheap  boarding  house  be- 
fore they  moved  in.  They  had  bought  some  furniture 
in  Stamton,  mostly  second-hand,  but  with  new  cheap 
cutlery  and  china  and  linen,  and  they  had  supplemented 
this  from  the  Fishbourne  shops.  Miriam,  relieved  from 
the  hilarious  associations  of  home,  developed  a  meagre 
and  serious  quality  of  her  own,  and  went  about  with 
knitted  brows  pursuing  some  ideal  of  "  'aving  everything 
right."  Mr.  Polly  gave  himself  to  the  arrangement  of 
the  shop  with  a  certain  zest,  and  whistled  a  good  deal 
until  Miriam  appeared  and  said  that  it  went  through  her 
head.  So  soon  as  he  had  taken  the  shop  he  had  filled  the 
window  with  aggressive  posters  announcing  in  no  meas- 
ured terms  that  he  was  going  to  open,  and  now  he  was 


176         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

getting  his  stuff  put  out  he  was  resolved  to  show  Fish- 
bourne  what  window  dressing  could  do.  He  meant  to 
give  them  boater  straws,  imitation  Panamas,  bathing 
dresses  with  novelties  in  stripes,  light  flannel  shirts,  sum- 
mer ties,  and  ready-made  flannel  trousers  for  men,  youths 
and  boys.  Incidentally  he  watched  the  small  fishmonger 
over  the  way,  and  had  a  glimpse  of  the  china  dealer  next 
door,  and  wondered  if  a  friendly  nod  would  be  out  of 
place.  And  on  the  first  Sunday  in  this  new  life  he  and 
Miriam  arrayed  themselves  with  great  care,  he  in  his 
wedding-funeral  hat  and  coat  and  she  in  her  going-away 
dress,  and  went  processionally  to  church,  a  more  respect- 
able looking  couple  you  could  hardly  imagine,  and  looked 
about  them. 

Things  began  to  settle  down  next  week  into  their 
places.  A  few  customers  came,  chiefly  for  bathing  suits 
and  hat  guards,  and  on  Saturday  night  the  cheapest 
straw  hats  and  ties,  and  Mr.  Polly  found  himself  more 
and  more  drawn  towards  the  shop  door  and  the  social 
charm  of  the  street.  He  found  the  china  dealer  un- 
packing a  crate  at  the  edge  of  the  pavement,  and  re- 
marked that  it  was  a  fine  day.  The  china  dealer  gave  a 
reluctant  assent,  and  plunged  into  the  crate  in  a  manner 
that  presented  no  encouragement  to  a  loquacious  neigh- 
bour. 

"Zealacious  commerciality,"  whispered  Mr.  Polly  to 
that  unfriendly  back  view.  .  .  . 


THE  LITTLE  SHOP  AT  FISH  BOURNE      177 


II 

Miriam  combined  earnestness  of  spirit  with  great  prac- 
tical incapacity.  The  house  was  never  clean  nor  tidy, 
but  always  being  frightfully  disarranged  for  cleaning  or 
tidying  up,  and  she  cooked  because  food  had  to  be  cooked 
and  with  a  sound  moralist's  entire  disregard  of  the  qual- 
ity of  the  consequences.  The  food  came  from  her  hands 
done  rather  than  improved,  and  looking  as  uncomfortable 
as  savages  clothed  under  duress  by  a  missionary  with  a 
stock  of  out-sizes.  Such  food  is  too  apt  to  behave  re- 
sentfully, rebel  and  work  Obi.  She  ceased  to  listen  to 
her  husband's  talk  from  the  day  she  married  him,  and 
ceased  to  unwrinkle  the  kink  in  her  brow  at  his  presence, 
giving  herself  up  to  mental  states  that  had  a  quality  of 
secret  preoccupation.  And  she  developed  an  idea  for 
which  perhaps  there  was  legitimate  excuse,  that  he  was 
lazy.  He  seemed  to  stand  about  in  the  shop  a  great  deal, 
to  read — an  indolent  habit — and  presently  to  seek  com- 
pany for  talking.  He  began  to  attend  the  bar  parlour  of 
the  God's  Providence  Inrj  with  some  frequency,  and 
would  have  done  so  regularly  in  the  evening  if  cards, 
which  bored  him  to  death,  had  not  arrested  conversation. 
But  the  perpetual  foolish  variation  of  the  permutations 
and  combinations  of  two  and  fifty  cards  taken  five  at  a 
time,  and  the  meagre  surprises  and  excitements  that  en- 
sue had  no  charms  for  Mr.  Polly's  mind,  which  was  at 
once  too  vivid  in  its  impressions  and  too  easily  fatigued. 


178         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

It  was  soon  manifest  the  shop  paid  only  in  the  least 
exacting  sense,  and  Miriam  did  not  conceal  her  opinion 
that  he  ought  to  bestir  himself  and  "  do  things,"  though 
what  he  was  to  do  was  hard  to  say.  You  see,  when  you 
have  once  sunken  your  capital  in  a  shop  you  do  not  very 
easily  get  it  out  again.  If  customers  will  not  come  to  you 
cheerfully  and  freely  the  law  sets  limits  upon  the  com- 
pulsion you  may  exercise.  You  cannot  pursue  people 
about  the  streets  of  a  watering  place,  compelling  them 
either  by  threats  or  importunity  to  buy  flannel  trousers. 
Additional  sources  of  income  for  a  tradesman  are  not 
always  easy  to  find.  Wintershed  at  the  bicycle  and 
gramaphone  shop  to  the  right,  played  the  organ  in  the 
church,  and  Clamp  of  the  toy  shop  was  pew  opener  and 
so  forth,  Gambell,  the  greengrocer,  waited  at  table  and 
his  wife  cooked,  and  Carter,  the  watchmaker,  left  things 
to  his  wife  while  he  went  about  the  world  winding 
clocks,  but  Mr.  Polly  had  none  of  these  arts,  and  wouldn't, 
in  spite  of  Miriam's  quietly  persistent  protests,  get  any 
other.  And  on  summer  evenings  he  would  ride  his  bi- 
cycle about  the  country,  and  if  he  discovered  a  sale  where 
there  were  books  he  would  as  often  as  not  waste  half  the 
next  day  in  going  again  to  acquire  a  job  lot  of  them  hap- 
hazard, and  bring  them  home  tied  about  with  a  string, 
and  hide  them  from  Miriam  under  the  counter  in  the 
shop.  That  is  a  heartbreaking  thing  for  any  wife  with  a 
serious  investigatory  turn  of  mind  to  discover.  She  was 
always  thinking  of  burning  these  finds,  but  her  natural 
turn  for  economy  prevailed  with  her. 


THE   LITTLE   SHOP  AT  FISH  BOURNE      179 

The  books  he  read  during  those  fifteen  years!  He 
read  everything  he  got  except  theology,  and  as  he  read 
his  little  unsuccessful  circumstances  vanished  and  the 
wonder  of  life  returned  to  him,  the  routine  of  reluctant 
getting  up,  opening  shop,  pretending  to  dust  it  with  zest, 
breakfasting  with  a  shop  egg  underdone  or  overdone  or 
a  herring  raw  or  charred,  and  coffee  made  Miriam's  way 
and  full  of  little  particles,  the  return  to  the  shop,  the 
morning  paper,  the  standing,  standing  at  the  door  saying 
"  How  do ! "  to  passers-by,  or  getting  a  bit  of  gossip  or 
watching  unusual  visitors,  all  these  things  vanished  as 
the  auditorium  of  a  theatre  vanishes  when  the  stage  is 
lit.  He  acquired  hundreds  of  books  at  last,  old  dusty 
books,  books  with  torn  covers  and  broken  covers,  fat 
books  whose  backs  were  naked  string  and  glue,  an  inimi- 
cal litter  to  Miriam. 

There  was,  for  example,  the  voyages  of  La  Perouse, 
with  many  careful,  explicit  woodcuts  and  the  frankest 
revelations  of  the  ways  of  the  eighteenth  century  sailor- 
man,  homely,  adventurous;'  drunken,  incontinent  and  de- 
lightful, until  he  floated,  smooth  and  slow,  with  all  sails 
set  and  mirrored  in  the  glassy  water,  until  his  head  was 
full  of  the  thought  of  shining  kindly  brown-skinned 
women,  who  smiled  at  him  and  wreathed  his  head  with 
unfamiliar  flowers.  He  had,  too,  a  piece  of  a  book  about 
the  lost  palaces  of  Yucatan,  those  vast  terraces  buried  in 
primordial  forest,  of  whose  makers  there  is  now  no  hu- 
man memory.  With  La  Perouse  he  linked  "  The  Island 
Nights  Entertainments,"  and  it  never  palled  upon  him 


i8o         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

that  in  the  dusky  stabbing  of  the  "  Island  of  Voices " 
something  poured  over  the  stabber's  hands  "  like  warm 
tea."  Queer  incommunicable  joy  it  is,  the  joy  of  the  vivid 
phrase  that  turns  the  statement  of  the  horridest  fact  to 
beauty ! 

And  another  book  which  had  no  beginning  for  him  was 
the  second  volume  of  the  Travels  of  the  Abbes  Hue  and 
Gabet.  He  followed  those  two  sweet  souls  from  their 
lessons  in  Thibetan  under  Sandura  the  Bearded  (who 
called  them  donkeys  to  their  infinite  benefit  and  stole 
their  store  of  butter)  through  a  hundred  misadventures 
to  the  very  heart  of  Lhassa,  and  it  was  a  thirst  in  him 
that  was  never  quenched  to  find  the  other  volume  and 
whence  they  came,  and  who  in  fact  they  were.  He  read 
Fenimore  Cooper  and  "  Tom  Cringle's  Log "  side  by 
side  with  Joseph  Conrad,  and  dreamt  of  the  many-hued 
humanity  of  the  East  and  West  Indies  until  his  heart 
ached  to  see  those  sun-soaked  lands  before  he  died.  Con- 
rad's prose  had  a  pleasure  for  him  that  he  was  never  able 
to  define,  a  peculiar  deep  coloured  effect.  He  found  too 
one  day  among  a  pile  of  soiled  sixpenny  books  at  Port 
.Burdock,  to  which  place  he  sometimes  rode  on  his  age- 
ing bicycle,  Bart  Kennedy's  "  A  Sailor  Tramp,"  all  writ- 
ten in  livid  jerks,  and  had  forever  after  a  kindlier  and 
more  understanding  eye  for  every  burly  rough  who 
slouched  through  Fishbourne  High  Street.  Sterne  he 
read  with  a  wavering  appreciation  and  some  perplexity, 
but  except  for  the  Pickwick  papers,  for  some  reason  that 
I  do  not  understand  he  never  took  at  all  kindly  to 


THE   LITTLE   SHOP  AT  FISHBOURNE      181 

Dickens.  Yet  he  liked  Lever  and  Thackeray's  "  Cath- 
erine," and  all  Dumas  until  he  got  to  the  Vicomte  de 
Bragelonne.  I  am  puzzled  by  his  insensibility  to  Dickens, 
and  I  record  it  as  a  good  historian  should,  with  an  admis- 
sion of  my  perplexity.  It  is  much  more  understandable 
that  he  had  no  love  for  Scott.  And  I  suppose  it  was  be- 
cause of  his  ignorance  of  the  proper  pronunciation  of 
words  that  he  infinitely  preferred  any  prose  to  any 
metrical  writing. 

A  book  he  browsed  over  with  a  recurrent  pleasure  was 
Waterton's  Wanderings  in  South  America.  He  would 
even  amuse  himself  by  inventing  descriptions  of  other 
birds  in  the  Watertonian  manner,  new  birds  that  he  in- 
vented, birds  with  peculiarities  that  made  him  chuckle 
when  they  occurred  to  him.  He  tried  to  make  Rusper, 
the  ironmonger,  share  this  joy  with  him.  He  read  Bates, 
too,  about  the  Amazon,  but  when  he  discovered  that  you 
could  not  see  one  bank  from  the  other,  he  lost,  through 
some  mysterious  action  of  the  soul  that  again  I  cannot 
understand,  at  least  a  tithe  of  the  pleasure  he  had  taken 
in  that  river.  But  he  read  all  sorts  of  things ;  a  book  of 
old  Keltic  stories  collected  by  Joyce  charmed  him,  and 
Mitford's  Tales  of  Old  Japan,  and  a  number  of  paper- 
covered  volumes,  Tales  from  Blackwood,  he  had  acquired 
at  Easewood,  remained  a  stand-by.  He  developed  a 
quite  considerable  acquaintance  with  the  plays  of  William 
Shakespeare,  and  in  his  dreams  he  wore  cinque  cento  or 
Elizabethan  clothes,  and  walked  about  a  stormy,  ruffling, 
taverning,  teeming  world.  Great  land  of  sublimated 


182         THE   HISTORY   OF   MR.   POLLY 

things,  thou  World  of  Books,  happy  asylum,  refreshment 
and  refuge  from  the  world  of  everyday!  .  *  . 

The  essential  thing  of  those  fifteen  long  years  of  shop- 
keeping  is  Mr.  Polly,  well  athwart  the  counter  of  his 
rather  ill-lit  shop,  lost  in  a  book,  or  rousing  himself  with 
a  sigh  to  attend  to  business. 

Meanwhile  he  got  little  exercise,  indigestion  grew  with 
him  until  it  ruled  all  his  moods,  he  fattened  and  deterio- 
rated physically,  moods  of  distress  invaded  and  darkened 
his  skies,  little  things  irritated  him  more  and  more,  and 
casual  laughter  ceased  in  him.  His  hair  began  to  come 
off  until  he  had  a  large  bald  space  at  the  back  of  his  head. 
Suddenly  one  day  it  came  to  him — forgetful  of  those 
books  and  all  he  had  lived  and  seen  through  them — that 
he  had  been  in  his  shop  for  exactly  fifteen  years,  that  he 
would  soon  be  forty,  and  that  his  life  during  that  time 
had  not  been  worth  living,  that  it  had  been  in  apathetic 
and  feebly  hostile  and  critical  company,  ugly  in  detail 
and  mean  in  scope — and  that  it  had  brought  him  at  last 
to  an  outlook  utterly  hopeless  and  grey. 

Ill 

I  have  already  had  occasion  to  mention,  indeed  I  have 
quoted,  a  certain  high-browed  gentleman  living  at  High- 
bury, wearing  a  golden  pince-nez  and  writing  for  the 
most  part  in  that  beautiful  room,  the  library  of  the  Re- 
form Club.  There  he  wrestles  with  what  he  calls  "  social 
problems  "  in  a  bloodless  but  at  times,  I  think  one  must 


THE   LITTLE   SHOP  AT  FISHBOURNE      183 

admit,  an  extremely  illuminating  manner.  He  has  a  fixed 
idea  that  something  called  a  "  collective  intelligence  "  is 
wanted  in  the  world,  which  means  in  practice  that  you 
and  I  and  everyone  have  to  think  about  things  frightfully 
hard  and  pool  the  results,  and  oblige  ourselves  to  be 
shamelessly  and  persistently  clear  and  truthful  and  sup- 
port and  respect  (I  suppose)  a  perfect  horde  of  profes- 
sors and  writers  and  artists  and  ill-groomed  difficult 
people,  instead  of  using  our  brains  in  a  moderate,  sensible 
manner  to  play  golf  and  bridge  (pretending  a  sense  of 
humour  prevents  our  doing  anything  else  with  them) 
and  generally  taking  life  in  a  nice,  easy,  gentlemanly  way, 
confound  him !  Well,  this  dome-headed  monster  of  in- 
tellect alleges  that  Mr.  Polly  was  unhappy  entirely 
through  that. 

"A  rapidly  complicating  society,"  he  writes,  "which 
as  a  whole  declines  to  contemplate  its  future  or  face 
the  intricate  problems  of  its  organisation,  is  in  exactly 
the  position  of  a  man  who  takes  no  thought  of  dietary 
or  regimen,  who  abstains  from  baths  and  exercise  and 
gives  his  appetites  free  play.  It  accumulates  useless  and 
aimless  lives  as  a  man  accumulates  fat  and  morbid  prod- 
ucts in  his  blood,  it  declines  in  its  collective  efficiency 
and  vigour  and  secretes  discomfort  and  misery.  Every 
phase  of  its  evolution  is  accompanied  by  a  maximum  of 
avoidable  distress  and  inconvenience  and  human 
waste.  .  .  . 

"  Nothing  can  better  demonstrate  the  collective  dul- 
ness  of  our  community,  the  crying  need  for  a  strenuous 


184         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.  POLLY 

intellectual  renewal  than  the  consideration  of  that  vast 
mass  of  useless,  uncomfortable,  under-educated,  under- 
trained  and  altogether  pitiable  people  we  contemplate 
when  we  use  that  inaccurate  and  misleading  term,  the 
Lower  Middle  Class.  A  great  proportion  of  the  lower 
middle  class  should  properly  be  assigned  to  the  unem- 
ployed and  the  unemployable.  They  are  only  not  that, 
because  the  possession  of  some  small  hoard  of  money,  sav- 
ings during  a  period  of  wage  earning,  an  insurance  policy 
or  suchlike  capital,  prevents  a  direct  appeal  to  the  rates. 
But  they  are  doing  little  or  nothing  for  the  community 
in  return  for  what  they  consume;  they  have  no  under- 
standing of  any  relation  of  service  to  the  community, 
they  have  never  been  trained  nor  their  imaginations 
touched  to  any  social  purpose.  A  great  proportion  of 
small  shopkeepers,  for  example,  are  people  who  have, 
through  the  inefficiency  that  comes  from  inadequate 
training  and  sheer  aimlessless,  or  improvements  in  ma- 
chinery or  the  drift  of  trade,  been  thrown  out  of  em- 
ployment, and  who  set  up  in  needless  shops  as  a  method 
of  eking  out  the  savings  upon  which  they  count.  They 
contrive  to  make  sixty  or  seventy  per  cent,  of  their  ex- 
penditure, the  rest  is  drawn  from  the  shrinking  capital. 
Essentially  their  lives  are  failures,  not  the  sharp  and 
tragic  failure  of  the  labourer  who  gets  out  of  work  and 
starves,  but  a  slow,  chronic  process  of  consecutive  small 
losses  which  may  end  if  the  individual  is  exceptionally 
fortunate  in  an  impoverished  death  bed  before  actual 
bankruptcy  or  destitution  supervenes.  Their  chances  of 


THE   LITTLE   SHOP  AT  FISHBOURNE 

ascendant  means  are  less  in  their  shops  than  in  any  lottery 
that  was  ever  planned.  The  secular  development  of 
transit  and  communications  has  made  the  organisation  of 
distributing  businesses  upon  large  and  economical  lines, 
inevitable ;  except  in  the  chaotic  confusions  of  newly 
opened  countries,  the  day  when  a  man  might  earn  an 
independent  living  by  unskilled  or  practically  unskilled 
retailing  has  gone  for  ever.  Yet  every  year  sees  the 
melancholy  procession  towards  petty  bankruptcy  and  im- 
prisonment for  debt  go  on,  and  there  is  no  statesman- 
ship in  us  to  avert  it.  Every  issue  of  every  trade  journal 
has  its  four  or  five  columns  of  abridged  bankruptcy 
proceedings,  nearly  every  item  in  which  means  the  final 
collapse  of  another  struggling  family  upon  the  resources 
of  the  community,  and  continually  a  fresh  supply  of 
superfluous  artisans  and  shop  assistants,  coming  out  of 
employment  with  savings  or  '  help '  from  relations,  of 
widows  with  a  husband's  insurance  money,  of  the  ill- 
trained  sons  of  parsimonious  fathers,  replaces  the  fallen 
in  the  ill-equipped,  jerry-built  shops  that  everywhere 
abound.  .  .  ." 

I  quote  these  fragments  from  a  gifted,  if  unpleasant, 
contemporary  for  what  they  are  worth.  I  feel  this  has 
come  in  here  as  the  broad  aspect  of  this  History.  I  come 
back  to  Mr.  Polly  sitting  upon  his  gate  and  swearing  in 
the  east  wind,  and  I  so  returning  have  a  sense  of  floating 
across  unbridged  abysses  between  the  General  and  tha 
Particular.  There,  on  the  one  hand,  is  the  man  of  under- 
standing, seeing  clearly — 1  suppose  he  sees  clearly — the 


186         THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

big  process  that  dooms  millions  of  lives  to  thwarting  and 
discomfort  and  unhappy  circumstances,  and  giving  us  no 
help,  no  hint,  by  which  we  may  get  that  better  "  collective 
will  and  intelligence "  which  would  dam  the  stream  of 
human  failure,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Polly  sitting 
on  his  gate,  untrained,  unwarned,  confused,  distressed, 
angry,  seeing  nothing  except  that  he  is,  as  it  were,  net- 
tled in  greyness  and  discomfort — with  life  dancing  all 
about  him ;  Mr.  Polly  with  a  capacity  for  joy  and  beauty 
at  least  as  keen  and  subtle  as  yours  or  mine. 

IV 

I  have  hinted  that  our  Mother  England  had  equipped 
Mr.  Polly  for  the  management  of  his  internal  concerns 
no  whit  better  than  she  had  for  the  direction  of  his  ex- 
ternal affairs.  With  a  careless  generosity  she  affords 
her  children  a  variety  of  foods  unparalleled  in  the 
world's  history,  and  including  many  condiments  and 
preserved  preparations  novel  to  the  human  economy. 
And  Miriam  did  the  cooking.  Mr.  Polly's  system,  like  a 
confused  and  ill-governed  democracy,  had  been  brought 
to  a  state  of  perpetual  clamour  and  disorder,  demanding 
now  evil  and  unsuitable  internal  satisfactions,  such  as 
pickles  and  vinegar  and  the  crackling  on  pork,  and  now 
vindictive  external  expression,  war  and  bloodshed 
throughout  the  world.  So  that  Mr.  Polly  had  been  led 
into  hatred  and  a  series  of  disagreeable  quarrels  with  his 
landlord,  his  wholesalers,  and  most  of  his  neighbours. 


THE   LITTLE   SHOP  AT  FISHBOURNE      187 

Rumbold,  the  china  dealer  next  door,  seemed  hostile 
from  the  first  for  no  apparent  reason,  and  always  un- 
packed his  crates  with  a  full  back  to  his  new  neighbour, 
and  from  the  first  Mr.  Polly  resented  and  hated  that 
uncivil  breadth  of  expressionless  humanity,  wanted  to 
prod  it,  kick  it,  satirise  it  But  you  cannot  satirise  a 
back,  if  you  have  no  friend  to  nudge  while  you  do  it. 

At  last  Mr.  Polly  could  stand  it  no  longer.  He  ap- 
proached and  prodded  Rumbold. 

"  Ello ! "  said  Rumbold,  suddenly  erect  and  turned 
about. 

"  Can't  we  have  some  other  point  of  view  ?  "  said  Mr 
Polly.  "  I'm  tired  of  the  end  elevation." 

"Eh?"  said  Mr.  Rumbold,  frankly  puzzled. 

"  Of  all  the  vertebracious  animals  man  alone  raises 
his  face  to  the  sky,  O'  Man.  Well, — why  invert  it?" 

Rumbold  shook  his  head  with  a  helpless  expression. 

"  Don't  like  so  much  Arreary  Pensy." 

Rumbold  distressed  in  utter  obscurity. 

"  In  fact,  I'm  sick  of  your  turning  your  back  on  me, 
see?" 

A  great  light  shone  on  Rumbold.  "  That's  what  you're 
talking  about !  "  he  said. 

"  That's  it,"  said  Polly. 

Rumbold  scratched  his  ear  with  the  three  strawy  jam- 
pots he  held  in  his  hand.  "  Way  the  wind  blows,  I  ex- 
pect," he  said.  "  But  what's  the  fuss?  " 

"  No  fuss !  "  said  Mr.  Polly.  "  Passing  Remark.  I 
don't  like  it,  O'  Man,  that's  all." 


188         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

"  Can't  help  it,  if  the  wind  blows  my  stror,"  said  Mr. 
Rumbold,  still  far  from  clear  about  it.  ... 

"  It  isn't  ordinary  civility,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"Got  to  unpack  'ow  it  suits  me.  Can't  unpack  with 
the  stror  blowing  into  one's  eyes." 

"  Needn't  unpack  like  a  pig  rooting  for  truffles,  need 
you?" 

"Truffles?" 

"  Needn't  unpack  like  a  pig." 

Mr.  Rumbold  apprehended  something. 

"  Pig ! "   he   said,   impressed.     "  You   calling  me   a 

pig?" 

"  It's  the  side  I  seem  to  get  of  you." 

"  'Ere,"  said  Mr.  Rumbold,  suddenly  fierce  and  shout- 
ing and  marking  his  point  with  gesticulated  jampots, 
"  you  go  indoors.  I  don't  want  no  row  with  you,  and  I 
don't  want  you  to  row  with  me.  I  don't  know  what 
you're  after,  but  I'm  a  peaceable  man — teetotaller,  too, 
and  a  good  thing  if  you  was.  See?  You  go  in- 
doors!" 

"  You  mean  to  say — I'm  asking  you  civilly  to  stop 
unpacking — with  your  back  to  me." 

"  Pig  ain't  civil,  and  you  ain't  sober.  You  go  indoors 
and  lemme  go  on  unpacking.  You — you're  excited." 

"  D'you  mean !  "    Mr.  Polly  was  foiled. 

He  perceived  an  immense  solidity  about  Rumbold. 

"  Get  back  to  your  shop  and  lemme  get  on  with  my 
business,"  said  Mr.  Rumbold.  "  Stop  calling  me  pigs. 
See  ?  Sweep  your  pavemint." 


THE   LITTLE   SHOP  'AT  FISHBOURNE      189 

"  I  came  here  to  make  a  civil  request." 

"  You  came  'ere  to  make  a  row.  I  don't  want  no 
truck  with  you.  See?  I  don't  like  the  looks  of 
you.  See?  And  I  can't  stand  'ere  all  day  arguing. 
See?" 

Pause  of  mutual  inspection. 

It  occurred  to  Mr.  Polly  that  probably  he  was  to  some 
extent  in  the  wrong. 

Mr.  Rumbold,  blowing  heavily,  walked  past  him,  de- 
posited the  jampots  in  his  shop  with  an  immense  affec- 
tation that  there  was  no  Mr.  Polly  in  the  world,  returned, 
turned  a  scornful  back  on  Mr.  Polly  and  dived  to  the 
interior  of  the  crate.  Mr.  Polly  stood  baffled.  Should 
he  kick  this  solid  mass  before  him?  Should  he  admin- 
ister a  resounding  kick? 

No! 

He  plunged  his  hands  deeply  into  his  trowser  pockets, 
began  to  whistle  and  returned  to  his  own  doorstep  with 
an  air  of  profound  unconcern.  There  for  a  time,  to 
the  tune  of  "  Men  of  Harlech,"  he  contemplated  the  re- 
ceding possibility  of  kicking  Mr.  Rumbold  hard.  It 
would  be  splendid — and  for  the  moment  satisfying.  But 
he  decided  not  to  do  it.  For  indefinable  reasons  he 
could  not  do  it.  He  went  indoors  and  straightened  up 
his  dress  ties  very  slowly  and  thoughtfully.  Presently 
he  went  to  the  window  and  regarded  Mr.  Rumbold 
obliquely.  Mr.  Rumbold  was  still  unpacking.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Polly  had  no  human  intercourse  thereafter  witK 
Rumbold  for  fifteen  years.  He  kept  up  a  Hate. 


190         THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

There  was  a  time  when  it  seemed  as  if  Rumbold 
might  go,  but  he  had  a  meeting  of  his  creditors  and  then 
went  on  unpacking  as  obtusely  as  ever. 


Hinks,  the  saddler,  two  shops  further  down  the  street, 
was  a  different  case.  Hinks  was  the  aggressor — practi- 
cally. 

Hinks  was  a  sporting  man  in  his  way,  with  that  taste 
for  checks  in  costume  and  tight  trousers  which  is,  under 
Providence,  so  mysteriously  and  invariably  associated 
with  equestrian  proclivities.  At  first  Mr.  Polly  took  to 
him  as  a  character,  became  frequent  in  the  God's  Provi- 
dence Inn  under  his  guidance,  stood  and  was  stood 
drinks  and  concealed  a  great  ignorance  of  horses  un- 
til Hinks  became  urgent  for  him  to  play  billiards  or 
bet. 

Then  Mr.  Polly  took  to  evading  him,  and  Hinks 
ceased  to  conceal  his  opinion  that  Mr.  Polly  was  in  reality 
a  softish  sort  of  flat. 

He  did  not,  however,  discontinue  conversation  with 
Mr.  Polly;  he  would  come  along  to  him  whenever  he 
appeared  at  his  door,  and  converse  about  sport  and 
women  and  fisticuffs  and  the  pride  of  life  with  an  air  of 
extreme  initiation,  until  Mr.  Polly  felt  himself  the  faint- 
est underdeveloped  intimation  of  a  man  that  had  ever 
hovered  on  the  verge  of  non-existence. 

So  he  invented  phrases  for  Hinks'  clothes  and  took 


fHE   LITTLE   SHOP  AT  FISHBOURNE      191 

Rusper,  the  ironmonger,  into  his  confidence  upon  the 
weaknesses  of  Hinks.  He  called  him  the  "  Chequered 
Careerist,"  and  spoke  of  his  patterned  legs  as  "  shivery 
shakys."  Good  things  of  this  sort  are  apt  to  get  round 
to  people. 

He  was  standing  at  his  door  one  day,  feeling  bored, 
when  Hinks  appeared  down  the  street,  stood  still  and 
regarded  him  with  a  strange  malignant  expression  for  a 
space. 

Mr.  Polly  waved  a  hand  in  a  rather  belated  saluta- 
tion. 

Mr.  Hinks  spat  on  the  pavement  and  appeared  to  re* 
fleet.  Then  he  came  towards  Mr.  Polly  portentously  am 
paused,  and  spoke  between  his  teeth  in  an  earnest  con- 
fidential tone. 

"  You  been  flapping  your  mouth  about  me,  I'm  told," 
he  said. 

Mr.  Polly  felt  suddenly  spiritless.  "  Not  that  I  know 
<•»£"  he  answered. 

'*  Not  that  you  know  of,  be  blowed !  You  been  flapping 
your  mouth." 

"  Don't  see  it,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Don't  see  it,  be  blowed !  You  go  flapping  your  silly 
mouth  about  me  and  I'll  give  you  a  poke  in  the  eye. 
See?" 

Mr.  Hinks  regarded  the  effect  of  this  coldly  but  firmly, 
and  spat  again. 

"  Understand  me?  "  he  enquired. 

"  Don't  recollect,"  began  Mr.  Polly. 


192         THE  HISTORY,   OF,  MR.   POLLY. 

"  Don't  recollect,  be  blowed !  You  flap  your  mouth  a 
dam  sight  too  much.  This  place  gets  more  of  your 
mouth  than  it  wants.  .  .  .  Seen  this  ?  " 

And  Mr.  Hinks,  having  displayed  a  freckled  fist  of 
extraordinary  size  and  pugginess  in  an  ostentatiously 
familiar  manner  to  Mr.  Polly's  close  inspection  by  sight 
and  smell,  turned  it  about  this  way  and  that  and  shaken  it 
gently  for  a  moment  or  so,  replaced  it  carefully  in  his 
pocket  as  if  for  future  use,  receded  slowly  and  watch- 
fully for  a  pace,  and  then  turned  away  as  if  to  other 
matters,  and  ceased  to  be  even  in  outward  seeming  a 
friend.  .  .  . 

VI 

Mr.  Polly's  intercourse  with  all  his  fellow  tradesmen 
was  tarnished  sooner  or  later  by  some  such  adverse  inci- 
dent, until  not  a  friend  remained  to  him,  and  loneliness 
made  even  the  shop  door  terrible.  Shops  bankrupted  all 
about  him  and  fresh  people  came  and  new  acquaintances 
sprang  up,  but  sooner  or  later  a  discord  was  inevitable, 
the  tension  under  which  these  badly  fed,  poorly  housed, 
bored  and  bothered  neighbours  lived,  made  it  inevitable. 
The  mere  fact  that  Mr.  Polly  had  to  see  them  every 
day,  that  there  was  no  getting  away  from  them,  was  in 
itself  sufficient  to  make  them  almost  unendurable  to  his 
frettingly  active  mind. 

Among  other  shopkeepers  in  the  High  Street  there 
was  Chuffles,  the  grocer,  a  small,  hairy,  silently  intent 
polygamist,  who  was  given  rough  music  by  the  youth  of 


THE   LITTLE   SHOP  AT  FISH  BOURNE      193 

the  neighbourhood  because  of  a  scandal  about  his  wife's 
sister,  and  who  was  nevertheless  totally  uninteresting,  and 
Tonks,  the  second  grocer,  an  old  man  with  an  older, 
very  enfeebled  wife,  both  submerged  by  piety.  Tonks 
went  bankrupt,  and  was  succeeded  by  a  branch  of  the 
National  Provision  Company,  with  a  young  manager 
exactly  like  a  fox,  except  that  he  barked.  The  toy  and 
sweetstuff  shop  was  kept  by  an  old  woman  of  repellent 
manners,  and  so  was  the  little  fish  shop  at  the  end  of 
the  street.  The  Berlin-wool  shop  having  gone  bankrupt, 
became  a  newspaper  shop,  then  fell  to  a  haberdasher  in 
consumption,  and  finally  to  a  stationer;  the  three  shops 
at  the  end  of  the  street  wallowed  in  and  out  of  insol- 
vency in  the  hands  of  a  bicycle  repaiier  and  dealer,  a 
gramaphone  dealer,  a  tobacconist,  a  sixpenny-halfpenny 
bazaar-keeper,  a  shoemaker,  a  greengrocer,  and  the  ex- 
ploiter of  a  cinematograph  peep-show — but  none  of  them 
supplied  friendship  to  Mr.  Polly.  These  adventurers  in 
commerce  were  all  more  or  less  distraught  souls,  driving 
without  intelligible  comment  before  the  gale  of  fate. 
The  two  milkmen  of  Fishbourne  were  brothers  who  had 
quarrelled  about  their  father's  will,  and  started  in  op- 
position to  each  other;  one  was  stone  deaf  and  no  use 
to  Mr.  Polly,  and  the  other  was  a  sporting  man  with  a 
natural  dread  of  epithet  who  sided  with  Hinks.  So  it 
was  all  about  him,  on  every  hand  it  seemed  were  uncon- 
genial people,  uninteresting  people,  or  people  who  con- 
ceived the  deepest  distrust  and  hostility  towards  him,  a 
magic  circle  of  suspicious,  preoccupied  and  dehumanised 


194         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

humanity.  So  the  poison  in  his  system  poisoned  the 
world  without. 

(But  Boomer,  the  wine  merchant,  and  Tashingford, 
the  chemist,  be  it  noted,  were  fraught  with  pride,  and 
held  themselves  to  be  a  cut  above  Mr.  Polly.  They  never 
quarrelled  with  him,  preferring  to  bear  themselves  from 
the  outset  as  though  they  had  already  done  so.) 

As  his  internal  malady  grew  upon  Mr.  Polly  and  he 
became  more  and  more  a  battle-ground  of  fermenting 
foods  and  warring  juices,  he  came  to  hate'  the  very 
sight,  as  people  say,  of  every  one  of  these  neighbours. 
There  they  were,  every  day  and  all  the  days,  just  the 
same,  echoing  his  own  stagnation.  They  pained  him  all 
round  the  top  and  back  of  his  head ;  they  made  his  legs 
and  arms  weary  and  spiritless.  The  air  was  tasteless  by 
reason  of  them.  He  lost  his  human  kindliness. 

In  the  afternoons  he  would  hover  in  the  shop  bored 
to  death  with  his  business  and  his  home  and  Miriam,  and 
yet  afraid  to  go  out  because  of  his  inflamed  and  magni- 
fied dislike  and  dread  of  these  neighbours.  He  could  not 
bring  himself  to  go  out  and  run  the  gauntlet  of  the  ob- 
servant windows  and  the  cold  estranged  eyes. 

One  of  his  last  friendships  was  with  Rusper,  the 
ironmonger.  Rusper  took  over  Worthington's  shop 
about  three  years  after  Mr.  Polly  opened.  He  was  a 
tall,  lean,  nervous,  convulsive  man  with  an  upturned, 
back-thrown,  oval  head,  who  read  newspapers  and  the 
Review  of  Reviews  assiduously,  had  belonged  to  a  Liter- 
ary Society  somewhere  once,  and  had  some  defect  of  the 


THE  LITTLE  SHOP  AT  FISH  BOURNE      195 

palate  that  at  first  gave  his  lightest  word  a  charm  and 
interest  for  Mr.  Polly.  It  caused  a  peculiar  clicking 
sound,  as  though  he  had  something  between  a  giggle 
and  a  gas-meter  at  work  in  his  neck. 

His  literary  admirations  were  not  precisely  Mr.  Polly's 
literary  admirations;  he  thought  books  were  written  to 
enshrine  Great  Thoughts,  and  that  art  was  pedagogy  in 
fancy  dress,  he  had  no  sense  of  phrase  or  epithet  or 
richness  of  texture,  but  still  he  knew  there  were  books, 
he  did  know  there  were  books  and  he  was  full  of  large 
•windy  ideas  of  the  sort  he  called  "  Modern  (kik) 
Thought,"  and  seemed  needlessly  and  helplessly  con- 
cerned about  "(kik)  the  Welfare  of  the  Race." 

Mr.  Polly  would  dream  about  that  (kik)  at  nights. 

It  seemed  to  that  undesirable  mind  of  his  that  Rusper's 
head  was  the  most  egg-shaped  head  he  had  ever  seen; 
the  similarity  weighed  upon  him;  and  when  he  found 
an  argument  growing  warm  with  Rusper  he  would  say: 
"  Boil  it  some  more,  O'  Man ;  boil  it  harder ! "  or  "  Six 
minutes  at  least,"  allusions  Rusper  could  never  make 
head  or  tail  of,  and  got  at  last  to  disregard  as  a  part  of 
Mr.  Polly's  general  eccentricity.  For  a  long  time  that 
little  tendency  threw  no  shadow  over  their  intercourse, 
but  it  contained  within  it  the  seeds  of  an  ultimate  dis- 
ruption. 

Often  during  the  days  of  this  friendship  Mr.  Polly 
would  leave  his  shop  and  walk  over  to  Mr.  Rusper's 
establishment,  and  stand  in  his  doorway  and  enquire: 
"  Well,  O'  Man,  how's  the  Mind  of  the  Age  working?  " 


196         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

and  get  quite  an  hour  of  it,  and  sometimes  Mr.  Rusper 
would  come  into  the  outfitter's  shop  with  "  Heard  the 
(kik)  latest?"  and  spend  the  rest  of  the  morning. 

Then  Mr.  Rusper  married,  and  he  married  very  in- 
considerately a  woman  who  was  totally  uninteresting  to 
Mr.  Polly.  A  coolness  grew  between  them  from  the 
first  intimation  of  her  advent.  Mr.  Polly  couldn't  help 
thinking  when  he  saw  her  that  she  drew  her  hair  back 
from  her  forehead  a  great  deal  too  tightly,  and  that  her 
elbows  were  angular.  His  desire  not  to  mention  these 
things  in  the  apt  terms  that  welled  up  so  richly  in  his 
mind,  made  him  awkward  in  her  presence,  and  that 
gave  her  an  impression  that  he  was  hiding  some  guilty 
secret  from  her.  She  decided  he  must  have  a  bad  in- 
fluence upon  her  husband,  and  she  made  it  a  point  to  ap- 
pear whenever  she  heard  him  talking  to  Rusper. 

One  day  they  became  a  little  heated  about  the  German 
peril. 

"  I  lay  (kik)  they'll  invade  us,"  said  Rusper. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.    William's  not  the  Zerxiacious  sort." 

"  You'll  see,  O'  Man." 

"  Just  what  I  shan't  do." 

"  Before  (kik)  five  years  are  out." 

"  Not  it." 

"  Yes." 

"  No." 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh !    Boil  it  hard !  "  said  Mr.  Polly. 

Then  he  looked  up  and  saw  Mrs.  Rusper  standing  be- 


THE  LITTLE   SHOP  AT  FISH  BOURNE      197 

hind  the  counter  half  hidden  by  a  trophy  of  spades  and 
garden  shears  and  a  knife-cleaning  machine^  and  by 
her  expression  he  knew  instantly  that  she  understood. 

The  conversation  paled  and  presently  Mr.  Polly  with- 
drew. 

After  that,  estrangement  increased  steadily. 

Mr.  Rusper  ceased  altogether  to  come  over  to  the  out- 
fitter's, and  Mr.  Polly  called  upon  the  ironmonger  only 
with  the  completest  air  of  casuality.  And  everything 
they  said  to  each  other  led  now  to  flat  contradiction  and 
raised  voices.  Rusper  had  been  warned  in  vague  and 
alarming  terms  that  Mr.  Polly  insulted  and  made  game 
of  him;  he  couldn't  discover  exactly  where;  and  so  it 
appeared  to  him  now  that  every  word  of  Mr.  Polly's 
might  be  an  insult  meriting  his  resentment,  meriting  it 
none  the  less  because  it  was  masked  and  cloaked, 

Soon  Mr.  Polly's  calls  upon  Mr.  Rusper  ceased  also, 
and  then  Mr.  Rusper,  pursuing  incomprehensible  lines 
of  thought,  became  afflicted  with  a  specialised  short- 
sightedness that  applied  only  to  Mr.  Polly.  He  would 
look  in  other  directions  when  Mr.  Polly  appeared,  and 
his  large  oval  face  assumed  an  expression  of  conscious 
serenity  and  deliberate  happy  unawareness  that  would 
have  maddened  a  far  less  irritable  person  than  Mr.  Polly. 
It  evoked  a  strong  desire  to  mock  and  ape,  and  produced 
in  his  throat  a  cough  of  singular  scornfulness,  more  par- 
ticularly when  Mr.  Rusper  also  assisted,  with  an  as- 
sumed unconsciousness  that  was  all  his  own. 

Then  one  day  Mr.  Polly  had  a  bicycle  accident. 


198         THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

His  bicycle  was  now  very  old,  and  it  is  one  of  the 
concomitants  of  a  bicycle's  senility  that  its  free  wheel 
should  one  day  obstinately  cease  to  be  free.  It  corre- 
sponds to  that  epoch  in  human  decay  when  an  old  gen- 
tleman loses  an  incisor  tooth.  It  happened  just  as  Mr. 
Polly  was  approaching  Mr.  Rusper's  shop,  and  the  un- 
toward chance  of  a  motor  car  trying  to  pass  a  waggon 
on  the  wrong  side  gave  Mr.  Polly  no  choice  but  to  get 
on  to  the  pavement  and  dismount.  He  was  always  ac- 
customed to  take  his  time  and  step  off  his  left  pedal  at 
its  lowest  point,  but  the  jamming  of  the  free  wheel  gear 
made  that  lowest  moment  a  transitory  one,  and  the  pedal 
was  lifting  his  foot  for  another  revolution  before  he 
realised  what  had  happened.  Before  he  could  dismount 
according  to  his  habit  the  pedal  had  to  make  a  revolu- 
tion, and  before  it  could  make  a  revolution  Mr.  Polly 
found  himself  among  the  various  sonorous  things  with 
which  Mr.  Rusper  adorned  the  front  of  his  shop,  zinc 
dustbins,  household  pails,  lawn  mowers,  rakes,  spades 
and  all  manner  of  clattering  things.  Before  he  got 
among  them  he  had  one  of  those  agonising  moments  of 
helpless  wrath  and  suspense  that  seem  to  last  ages,  in 
which  one  seems  to  perceive  everything  and  think  of 
nothing  but  words  that  are  better  forgotten.  He  sent  a 
column  of  pails  thundering  across  the  doorway  and  dis- 
mounted with  one  foot  in  a  sanitary  dustbin  amidst  an 
enormous  uproar  of  falling  ironmongery. 

"Put  all  over  the  place!"  he  cried,  and  found  Mr. 
Rusper  emerging  from  his  shop  with  the  large  tranquilli- 


THE   LITTLE   SHOP  AT  FISH  BOURNE      199 

ties  of  his  countenance  puckered  to  anger,  like  the  frowns 
in  the  brow  of  a  reefing  sail.  He  gesticulated  speech- 
lessly for  a  moment. 

"  Kik — jer  doing?"  he  said  at  last 

"  Tin  mantraps ! "  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"Jer  (kik)  doing?" 

"  Dressing  all  over  the  pavement  as  though  the  blessed 
town  belonged  to  you !  Ugh !  " 

And  Air.  Polly  in  attempting  a  dignified  movement 
realised  his  entanglement  with  the  dustbin  for  the  first 
time.  With  a  low  embittering  expression  he  kicked  his 
foot  about  in  it  for  a  moment  very  noisily,  and  finally 
sent  it  thundering  to  the  curb.  On  its  way  it  struck  a 
pail  or  so.  Then  Mr.  Polly  picked  up  his  bicycle  and 
proposed  to  resume  his  homeward  way.  But  the  hand  of 
Mr.  Rusper  arrested  him. 

"Put  it  (kik)  all  (kik  kik)  back  (kik)." 

"  Put  it  (kik)  back  yourself." 

"You  got  (kik)  put  it  back." 

"Get  out  of  the  (kik)  way." 

Mr.  Rusper  laid  one  hand  on  the  bicycle  handle,  and 
the  other  gripped  Mr.  Polly's  collar  urgently.  Where- 
upon Mr.  Polly  said :  "  Leggo !  "  and  again,  "  D'you 
hear!  Leggo!  "  and  then  drove  his  elbow  with  consid- 
erable force  into  the  region  of  Mr.  Rusper's  midriff. 
Whereupon  Mr.  Rusper,  with  a  loud  impassioned  cry,  re- 
sembling "  Woo  kik  "  more  than  any  other  combination 
of  letters,  released  the  bicycle  handle,  seized  Mr.  Polly 
by  the  cap  and  hair  and  bore  his  head  and  shoulders 


200         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY. 

downward.  Thereat  Mr.  Polly,  emitting  such  words  as 
everyone  knows  and  nobody  prints,  butted  his  utmost 
into  the  concavity  of  Mr.  Rusper,  entwined  a  leg  about 
him  and  after  terrific  moments  of  swaying  instability, 
fell  headlong  beneath  him  amidst  the  bicycles  and  pails. 
There  on  the  pavement  these  inexpert  children  of  a  pacific 
age,  untrained  in  arms  and  uninured  to  violence,  aban- 
doned themselves  to  amateurish  and  absurd  efforts  to  hurt 
and  injure  one  another — of  which  the  most  palpable 
consequences  were  dusty  backs,  ruffled  hair  and  torn  and 
twisted  collars.  Mr.  Polly,  by  accident,  got  his  finger  into 
Mr.  Rusper's  mouth,  and  strove  earnestly  for  some  time 
to  prolong  that  aperture  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Rusper's 
ear  before  it  occurred  to  Mr.  Rusper  to  bite  him  (and 
even  then  he  didn't  bite  very  hard),  while  Mr.  Rusper 
concentrated  his  mind  almost  entirely  on  an  effort  to  rub 
Mr.  Polly's  face  on  the  pavement.  (And  their  positions 
bristled  with  chances  of  the  deadliest  sort!)  They  didn't 
from  first  to  last  draw  blood. 

Then  it  seemed  to  each  of  them  that  the  other  had  be- 
come endowed  with  many  hands  and  several  voices  and 
great  accessions  of  strength.  They  submitted  to  fate 
and  ceased  to  struggle.  They  found  themselves  torn 
apart  and  held  up  by  outwardly  scandalised  and  in- 
wardly delighted  neighbours,  and  invited  to  explain  what 
it  was  all  about. 

"Got  to  (kik)  puttem  all  back!"  panted  Mr.  Rusper 
in  the  expert  grasp  of  Hinks.  "  Merely  asked  him  to 
(kik)  puttem  all  back." 


THE   LITTLE   SHOP  'AT  FISH  BOURNE      201 

Mr.  Polly  was  under  restraint  of  little  Clamp,  of  the 
toy  shop,  who  was  holding  his  hands  in  a  complex  and 
uncomfortable  manner  that  he  afterwards  explained  to 
Wintershed  was  a  combination  of  something  romantic 
called  "  Ju-jitsu  "  and  something  else  still  more  romantic 
called  the  "  Police  Grip." 

"  Pails,"  explained  Mr.  Polly  in  breathless  fragments. 
"  All  over  the  road.  Pails.  Bungs  up  the  street  with 
his  pails.  Look  at  them !  " 

"  Deliber  (kik)  lib  (kik)  liberately  rode  into  my 
goods  (kik).  Constantly  (kik)  annoying  me  (kik)!" 
said  Mr.  Rusper.  .  .  . 

They  were  both  tremendously  earnest  and  reasonable 
in  their  manner.  They  wished  everyone  to  regard  them 
as  responsible  and  intellectual  men  acting  for  the  love 
of  right  and  the  enduring  good  of  the  \vorld.  They  felt 
they  must  treat  this  business  as  a  profound  and  publicly 
significant  affair.  They  wanted  to  explain  and  orate  and 
show  the  entire  necessity  of  everything  they  had  done. 
Mr.  Polly  was  convinced  he  had  never  been  so  abso- 
lutely correct  in  all  his  life  as  when  he  planted  his  foot 
in  the  sanitary  dustbin,  and  Mr.  Rusper  considered  his 
clutch  at  Mr.  Polly's  hair  as  the  one  faultless  impulse 
in  an  otherwise  undistinguished  career.  But  it  was  clear 
in  their  minds  they  might  easily  become  ridiculous  if 
they  were  not  careful,  if  for  a  second  they  stepped  over 
the  edge  of  the  high  spirit  and  pitiless  dignity  they  had 
hitherto  maintained.  At  any  cost  they  perceived  they; 
must  not  become  ridiculous. 


202         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

Mr.  Chuffles,  the  scandalous  grocer,  joined  the  throng 
about  the  principal  combatants,  mutely  as  became  an 
•utcast,  and  with  a  sad,  distressed  helpful  expression 
picked  up  Mr.  Polly's  bicycle.  Gamb ell's  summer  er- 
rand boy,  moved  by  example,  restored  the  dustbin  and 
pails  to  their  self-respect. 

"  'E  ought — 'E  ought  (kik)  pick  them  up,"  protested 
iMr.  Rusper. 

"What's  it  all  about?"  said  Mr.  Hinks  for  the  third 
time,  shaking  Mr.  Rusper  gently.  "  'As  'e  been  calling 
you  names?" 

"  Simply  ran  into  his  pails — as  anyone  might,"  said 
Mr.  Polly,  "  and  out  he  comes  and  scrags  me !  " 

"  (Kik)  Assault!"  said  Mr.  Rusper. 

"  He  assaulted  me"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"Jumped  (kik)  into  my  dus'bin!"  said  Mr.  Rusper. 
"That  assault?  Or  isn't  it?" 

"  You  better  drop  it,"  said  Mr.  Hinks. 

"  Great  pity  they  can't  be'ave  better,  both  of  'em," 
said  Mr.  Chuffles,  glad  for  once  to  find  himself  morally 
unassailable. 

"  Anyone  see  it  begin?  "  said  Mr.  Wintershed. 

"  I  was  in  the  shop,"  said  Mrs.  Rusper  suddenly  from 
the  doorstep,  piercing  the  little  group  of  men  and  boys 
with  the  sharp  horror  of  an  unexpected  woman's  voice. 
"  If  a  witness  is  wanted  I  suppose  I've  got  a  tongue.  I 
suppose  I  got  a  voice  in  seeing  my  own  'usband  injured. 
My  husband  went  out  and  spoke  to  Mr.  Polly,  who  was 
jumping  off  his  bicycle  all  among  our  pails  and  things, 


THE   LITTLE   SHOP  AT  FISHBOURNE      203 

and  immediately  'E  butted  him  in  the  stomach — immedi- 
ately— most  savagely — butted  him.  Just  after  his  dinner 
too  and  him  far  from  strong.  I  could  have  screamed. 
But  Rusper  caught  hold  of  him  right  away,  I  will  say 
that  for  Rusper.  .  .  ." 

"  I'm  going,"  said  Mr.  Polly  suddenly,  releasing  him- 
self from  the  Anglo-Japanese  grip  and  holding  out  his 
hands  for  his  bicycle. 

"  Teach  you  (kik)  to  leave  things  alone,"  said 
Mr.  Rusper  with  an  air  of  one  who  has  given  a  les- 
son. 

The  testimony  of  Mrs.  Rusper  continued  relentlessly  in 
the  background. 

"You'll  hear  of  me  through  a  summons,"  said  Mr. 
Polly,  preparing  to  wheel  his  bicycle. 

"  (Kik)   Me  too,"  said  Mr.  Rusper. 

Someone  handed  Mr.  Polly  a  collar.    "  This  yours  ?  " 

Mr.  Polly  investigated  his  neck.  "  I  suppose  it  is. 
Anyone  seen  a  tie  ? " 

A  small  boy  produced  a  grimy  strip  of  spotted  blue 
silk. 

"  Human  life  isn't  safe  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Polly  as  a 
parting  shot. 

"  (Kik)  Yours  isn't,"  said  Mr.  Rusper.     .     .     . 

And  they  got  small  satisfaction  out  of  the"  Bench, 
which  refused  altogether  to  perceive  the  relentless  cor- 
rectitude  of  the  behaviour  of  either  party,  and  reproved 
the  eagerness  of  Mrs.  Rusper — speaking  to  her  gently, 
firmly  but  exasperatingly  as  "  My  Good  Woman "  and 


204         THE   HISTORY.   OF  MR.   POLLY 

telling  her  to  "  Answer  the  Question !  Answer  the 
Question !  " 

"  Seems  a  Pity,"  said  the  chairman,  when  binding 
them  over  to  keep  the  peace,  "  you  can't  behave  like  Re- 
spectable Tradesmen.  Seems  a  Great  Pity.  Bad  Exam- 
ple to  the  Young  and  all  that.  Don't  do  any  Good  to 
the  town,  don't  do  any  Good  to  yourselves,  don't  do  any 
manner  of  Good,  to  have  all  the  Tradesmen  in  the  Place 
scrapping  about  the  Pavement  of  an  Afternoon.  Think 
we're  letting  you  off  very  easily  this  time,  and  hope  it 
will  be  a  Warning  to  you.  Don't  expect  Men  of  your 
Position  to  come  up  before  us.  Very  Regrettable  Af- 
fair. Eh?" 

He  addressed  the  latter  enquiry  to  his  two  col- 
leagues. 

"  Exactly,  exactly,"  said  the  colleague  to  the  right. 

"Er— (kik),"  said  Mr.  Rusper. 

VII 

But  the  disgust  that  overshadowed  Mr.  Polly's  being 
as  he  sat  upon  the  stile,  had  other  and  profounder  justi- 
fication than  his  quarrel  with  Rusper  and  the  indignity 
of  appearing  before  the  county  bench.  He  was  for  the 
first  time  in  his  business  career  short  with  his  rent  for 
the  approaching  quarter  day,  and  so  far  as  he  could 
trust  his  own  handling  of  figures  he  was  sixty  or  seventy 
pounds  on  the  wrong  side  of  solvency.  And  that  was 
the  outcome  of  fifteen  years  of  passive  endurance  of  dul- 


THE   LITTLE   SHOP  AT  FISHBOURNE      205 

ness  throughout  the  best  years  of  his  life!  What  would 
Miriam  say  when  she  learnt  this,  and  was  invited  to 
face  the  prospect  of  exile — heaven  knows  what  sort  of 
exile! — from  their  present  home?  She  would  grumble 
and  scold  and  become  limply  unhelpful,  he  knew,  and 
none  the  less  so  because  he  could  not  help  things.  She 
would  say  he  ought  to  have  worked  harder,  and  a  hun- 
dred such  exasperating  pointless  things.  Such  thoughts 
as  these  require  no  aid  from  undigested  cold  pork  and 
cold  potatoes  and  pickles  to  darken  the  soul,  and  with 
these  aids  his  soul  was  black  indeed. 

"  May  as  well  have  a  bit  of  a  walk/'  said  Mr.  Polly 
at  last,  after  nearly  intolerable  meditations,  and  sat  round 
and  put  a  leg  over  the  stile. 

He  remained  still  for  some  time  before  he  brought 
over  the  other  leg. 

"  Kill  myself,"  he  murmured  at  last. 

It  was  an  idea  that  came  back  to  his  mind  nowadays 
with  a  continually  increasing  attractiveness — more  par- 
ticularly after  meals.  Life  he  felt  had  no  further  happi- 
ness to  offer  him.  He  hated  Miriam,  and  there  was  no 
getting  away  from  her  whatever  might  betide.  And  for 
the  rest  there  was  toil  and  struggle,  toil  and  struggle 
with  a  failing  heart  and  dwindling  courage,  to  sustain 
that  dreary  duologue.  "Life's  insured,"  said  Mr.  Polly; 
"  place  is  insured.  I  don't  see  it  does  any  harm  to  her 
or  anyone." 

He  stuck  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "  Needn't  hurt 
much,"  he  said.  He  began  to  elaborate  a  plan. 


206         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

He  found  it  quite  interesting  elaborating  his  plan. 
His  countenance  became  less  miserable  and  his  pace 
quickened. 

There  is  nothing  so  good  in  all  the  world  for  mel- 
ancholia as  walking,  and  the  exercise  of  the  imagination 
in  planning  something  presently  to  be  done,  and  soon 
the  wrathful  wretchedness  had  vanished  from  Mr.  Polly's 
face.  He  would  have  to  do  the  thing  secretly  and 
elaborately,  because  otherwise  there  might  be  difficulties 
about  the  life  insurance.  He  began  to  scheme  how  he 
could  circumvent  that  difficulty.  .  .  . 

He  took  a  long  wrJk,  for  after  all  what  is  the  good  of 
hurrying  back  to  shop  when  you  are  not  only  insolvent 
but  very  soon  to  die?  His  dinner  and  the  east  wind  lost 
their  sinister  hold  upon  his  soul,  and  when  at  last  he 
came  back  along  the  Fishbourne  High  Street,  his  face 
was  unusually  bright  and  the  craving  hunger  of  the 
dyspeptic  was  returning.  So  he  went  into  the  grocer's 
and  bought  a  ruddily  decorated  tin  of  a  brightly  pink 
fishlike  substance  known  as  "  Deep  Sea  Salmon."  This 
he  was  resolved  to  consume  regardless  of  cost  with 
vinegar  and  salt  and  pepper  as  a  relish  to  his  supper. 

He  did,  and  since  he  and  Miriam  rarely  talked  and 
Miriam  thought  honour  and  his  recent  behaviour  de- 
manded a  hostile  silence,  he  ate  fast,  and  copiously5  and 
soon  gloomily.  He  ate  alone,  for  she  refrained,  to  mark 
her  sense  of  his  extravagance.  Then  he  prowled  into 
the  High  Street  for  a  time,  thought  it  an  infernal  place, 


THE   LITTLE   SHOP  AT  FISHBOURNE      207 

tried  his  pipe  and  found  it  foul  and  bitter,  and  retired 
wearily  to  bed. 

He  slept  for  an  hour  or  so  and  then  woke  up  to  the 
contemplation  of  Miriam's  hunched  back  and  the  riddle 
of  life,  and  this  bright  attractive  idea  of  ending  for  ever 
and  ever  and  ever  all  the  things  that  were  locking  him 
in,  this  bright  idea  that  shone  like  a  baleful  star  above  all 
the  reek  and  darkness  of  his  misery.  .  .  . 


MAKING  AN   END  TO  THINGS 


CHAPTER  THE   EIGHTH 

MAKING  AN   END  TO  THINGS 


MR.  POLLY  designed  his  suicide  with  consid- 
erable care,  and  a  quite  remarkable  altruism. 
His  passionate  hatred  for  Miriam  vanished 
^directly  the  idea  of  getting  away  from  her  for  ever  be- 
came clear  in  his  mind.  He  found  himself  full  of  solici- 
tude then  for  her  welfare.  He  did  not  want  to  buy  his 
release  at  her  expense.  He  had  not  the  remotest  inten- 
tion of  leaving  her  unprotected  with  a  painfully  dead 
husband  and  a  bankrupt  shop  on  her  hands.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  could  contrive  to  secure  for  her  the  full 
benefit  of  both  his  life  insurance  and  his  fire  insurance 
if  he  managed  things  in  a  tactful  manner.  He  felt  hap- 
pier than  he  had  done  for  years  scheming  out  this  un- 
dertaking, albeit  it  was  perhaps  a  larger  and  somberer 
kind  of  happiness  than  had  fallen  to  his  lot  before.  It 
amazed  him  to  think  he  had  endured  his  monotony  of 
misery  and  failure  for  so  long. 

But  there  were  some  queer  doubts  and  questions  in 
the  dim,  half-lit  background  of  his  mind  that  he  had 
very  resolutely  to  ignore. 

"Sick  of  it,"  he  had  to  repeat  to  himself  aloud,  to 

211 


212         THE  HISTORY   OF.  MR.  POLLY 

keep  his  determination  clear  and  firm.  His  life  was  a 
failure,  there  was  nothing  more  to  hope  for  but  unhap- 
piness.  Why  shouldn't  he? 

His  project  was  to  begin  the  fire  with  the  stairs  that 
led  from  the  ground  floor  to  the  underground  kitchen 
and  scullery.  This  he  would  soak  with  paraffine,  and 
assist  with  firewood  and  paper,  and  a  brisk  fire  in  the 
coal  cellar  underneath.  He  would  smash  a  hole  or  so  in 
the  stairs  to  ventilate  the  blaze,  and  have  a  good  pile  of 
boxes  and  paper,  and  a  convenient  chair  or  so  in  the 
shop  above.  He  would  have  the  paraffine  can  upset  and 
the  shop  lamp,  as  if  awaiting  refilling,  at  a  convenient 
distance  in  the  scullery  ready  to  catch.  Then  he  would 
smash  the  house  lamp  on  the  staircase,  a  fall  with  that 
in  his  hand  was  to  be  the  ostensible  cause  of  the  blaze, 
and  then  he  would  cut  his  throat  at  the  top  of  the  kitchen 
stairs,  which  would  then  become  his  funeral  pyre.  He 
would  do  all  this  on  Sunday  evening  while  Miriam  was 
at  church,  and  it  would  appear  that  he  had  fallen  down- 
stairs with  the  lamp,  and  been  burnt  to  death.  There 
was  really  no  flaw  whatever  that  he  could  see  in  the 
scheme.  He  was  quite  sure  he  knew  how  to  cut  his 
throat,  deep  at  the  side  and  not  to  saw  at  the  windpipe, 
and  he  was  reasonably  sure  it  wouldn't  hurt  him  very^ 
much.  And  then  everything  would  be  at  an  end. 

There  was  no  particular  hurry  to  get  the  thing  done, 
of  course,  and  meanwhile  he  occupied  his  mind  with 
possible  variations  of  the  scheme.  .  .  . 

It  needed  a  particularly  dry  and  dusty  east  wind,  a 


213 

Sunday  dinner  of  exceptional  virulence,  a  conclusive  let- 
ter from  Konk,  Maybrick,  Ghool  and  Gabbitas,  his  prin- 
cipal and  most  urgent  creditors,  and  a  conversation  with 
Miriam  arising  out  of  arrears  of  rent  and  leading  on  to 
mutual  character  sketching,  before  Mr.  Polly  could  be 
brought  to  the  necessary  pitch  of  despair  to  carry  out 
his  plans.  He  went  for  an  embittering  walk,  and  came 
back  to  find  Miriam  in  a  bad  temper  over  the  tea  things, 
with  the  brewings  of  three-quarters  of  an  hour  in  the 
pot,  and  hot  buttered  muffin  gone  leathery.  He  sat  eat- 
ing in  silence  with  his  resolution  made. 

"  Coming  to  church  ? "  said  Miriam  after  she  had 
cleared  away. 

"Rather.  I  got  a  lot  to  be  grateful  for,"  said  Mr. 
Polly. 

"  You  got  what  you  deserve,"  said  Miriam. 

"  Suppose  I  have,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  went  and 
stared  out  of  the  back  window  at  a  despondent  horse  in 
the  hotel  yard. 

He  was  still  standing  there  when  Miriam  came  down- 
stairs dressed  for  church.  Something  in  his  immobility 
struck  home  to  her.  "  You'd  better  come  to  church  than 
mope,"  she  said. 

"  I  shan't  mope,"  he  answered. 

She  remained  still  for  a  moment.  Her  presence  irri- 
tated him.  He  felt  that  in  another  moment  he  should 
say  something  absurd  to  her,  make  some  last  appeal  for 
that  understanding  she  had  never  been  able  to  give. 
"  Oh !  go  to  church !  "  he  said. 


214         THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

In  another  moment  the  outer  door  slammed  upon 
her.  "  Good  riddance !  "  said  Mr.  Polly. 

He  turned  about.    "  I've  had  my  whack,"  he  said. 

He  reflected.  "  I  don't  see  she'll  have  any  cause  to 
holler,"  he  said.  "Beastly  Home!  Beastly  Life!" 

For  a  space  he  remained  thoughtful.  "  Here  goes ! " 
he  said  at  last. 

II 

For  twenty  minutes  Mr.  Polly  busied  himself  about  the 
house,  making  his  preparations  very  neatly  and  methodi- 
cally. 

He  opened  the  attic  windows  in  order  to  make  sure  of 
a  good  draught  through  the  house,  and  drew  down  the 
blinds  at  the  back  and  shut  the  kitchen  door  to  conceal 
his  arrangements  from  casual  observation.  At  the  end 
he  would  open  the  door  on  the  yard  and  so  make  a  clean 
clear  draught  right  through  the  house.  He  hacked  at, 
and  wedged  off,  the  tread  of  a  stair.  He  cleared  out  the 
coals  from  under  the  staircase,  and  built  a  neat  fire  of 
firewood  and  paper  there,  he  splashed  about  paraffine 
and  arranged  the  lamps  and  can  even  as  he  had  designed, 
and  made  a  fine  inflammable  pile  of  things  in  the  little 
parlour  behind  the  shop.  "  Looks  pretty  arsenical,"  he 
said  as  he  surveyed  it  all.  "  Wouldn't  do  to  have  a 
caller  now.  Now  for  the  stairs ! " 

"  Plenty  of  time,"  he  assured  himself,  and  took  the 
lamp  which  was  to  explain  the  whole  affair,  and  went  to 
the  head  of  the  staircase  between  the  scullery  and  the 


MAKING  AN   END    TO    THINGS         215 

parlour.  He  sat  down  in  the  twilight  with  the  unlit  lamp 
beside  him  and  surveyed  things.  He  must  light  the  fire 
in  the  coal  cellar  under  the  stairs,  open  the  back  door, 
then  come  up  them  very  quickly  and  light  the  paraffine 
puddles  on  each  step,  then  sit  down  here  again  and  cut 
his  throat. 

He  drew  his  razor  from  his  pocket  and  felt  the  edge. 
It  wouldn't  hurt  much,  and  in  ten  minutes  he  would  be 
indistinguishable  ashes  in  the  blaze. 

And  this  was  the  end  of  life  for  him ! 

The  end !  And  it  seemed  to  him  now  that  life  had 
never  begun  for  him,  never !  It  was  as  if  his  soul  had 
been  cramped  and  his  eyes  bandaged  from  the  hour  of 
his  birth.  Why  had  he  lived  such  a  life?  Why  had  he 
submitted  to  things,  blundered  into  things?  Why  had 
he  never  insisted  on  the  things  he  thought  beautiful  and 
the  things  he  desired,  never  sought  them,  fought  for 
them,  taken  any  risk  for  them,  died  rather  than  abandon 
them?  They  were  the  things  that  mattered.  Safety  did 
not  matter.  A  living  did  not  matter  unless  there  were 
things  to  live  for.  .  .  . 

He  had  been  a  fool,  a  coward  and  a  fool,  he  had  been 
fooled  too,  for  no  one  had  ever  warned  him  to  take  a 
firm  hold  upon  life,  no  one  had  ever  told  him  of  the  lit- 
tleness of  fear,  or  pain,  or  death ;  but  what  was  the  good 
of  going  through  it  now  again?  It  was  over  and  done 
with. 

The  clock  in  the  back  parlour  pinged  the  half  hour. 

"  Time ! "  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  stood  up. 


216         THE   HISTORY.   OF  MR.   POLLY 

For  an  instant  he  battled  with  an  impulse  to  put  it  all 
back,  hastily,  guiltily,  and  abandon  this  desperate  plan 
of  suicide  for  ever. 

But  Miriam  would  smell  the  paraffine ! 

"  No  way  out  this  time,  O'  Man,"  said  Mr.  Polly ;  and 
he  went  slowly  downstairs,  match  box  in  hand. 

He  paused  for  five  seconds,  perhaps,  to  listen  to  noises 
in  the  yard  of  the  Royal  Fishbourne  Hotel  before  he 
struck  his  match.  It  trembled  a  little  in  his  hand.  The 
paper  blackened,  and  an  edge  of  blue  flame  ran  outward 
and  spread.  The  fire  burnt  up  readily,  and  in  an  instant 
the  wood  was  crackling  cheerfully. 

Someone  might  hear.    He  must  hurry. 

He  lit  a  pool  of  paraffine  on  the  scullery  floor,  and  in- 
stantly a  nest  of  snaky,  wavering  blue  flame  became 
agog  for  prey.  He  went  up  the  stairs  three  steps  at  a 
time  with  one  eager  blue  flicker  in  pursuit  of  him.  He 
seized  the  lamp  at  the  top.  "  Now !  "  he  said  and  flung 
it  smashing.  The  chimney  broke,  but  the  glass  receiver 
stood  the  shock  and  rolled  to  the  bottom,  a  potential 
bomb.  Old  Rumbold  would  hear  that  and  wonder  what 
it  was!  .  .  .  He'd  know  soon  enough! 

Then  Mr.  Polly  stood  hesitating,  razor  in  hand,  and 
then  sat  down.  He  was  trembling  violently,  but  quite 
unafraid. 

He  drew  the  blade  lightly  under  one  ear.  "  Lord ! " 
but  it  stung  like  a  nettle ! 

Then  he  perceived  a  little  blue  thread  of  flame  run- 
ning up  his  leg.  It  arrested  his  attention,  and  for  a 


MAKING  AN   END    TO    THINGS         217 

moment  he  sat,  razor  in  hand,  staring  at  it.  It  must  be 
paraffine  on  his  trousers  that  had  caught  fire  on  the 
stairs.  Of  course  his  legs  were  wet  with  paraffine !  He 
smacked  the  flicker  with  his  hand  to  put  it  out,  and  felt 
his  leg  burn  as  he  did  so.  But  his  trousers  still  charred 
and  glowed.  It  seemed  to  him  necessary  that  he  must 
put  this  out  before  he  cut  his  throat.  He  put  down  the 
razor  beside  him  to  smack  with  both  hands  very  eagerly. 
And  as  he  did  so  a  thin  tall  red  flame  came  up  through 
the  hole  in  the  stairs  he  had  made  and  stood  still,  quite 
still  as  it  seemed,  and  looked  at  him.  It  was  a  strange- 
looking  flame,  a  flattish  salmon  colour,  redly  streaked. 
It  was  so  queer  and  quiet  mannered  that  the  sight  of  it 
held  Mr.  Polly  agape. 

"  Whuff !  "  went  the  can  of  paraffine  below,  and  boiled 
over  with  stinking  white  fire.  At  the  outbreak  the 
salmon-coloured  flames  shivered  and  ducked  and  then 
doubled  and  vanished,  and  instantly  all  the  staircase  was 
noisily  ablaze. 

Mr.  Polly  sprang  up  and  backwards,  as  though  the 
uprushing  tongues  of  fire  were  a  pack  of  eager  wolves. 

"  Good  Lord ! "  he  cried  like  a  man  who  wakes  up 
from  a  dream. 

He  swore  sharply  and  slapped  again  at  a  recrudescent 
flame  upon  his  leg. 

"  What  the  Deuce  shall  I  do  ?  I'm  soaked  with  the 
confounded  stuff!" 

He  had  nerved  himself  for  throat-cutting,  but  this  was 
fire! 


218         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

He  wanted  to  delay  things,  to  put  them  out  for  a  mo- 
ment while  he  did  his  business.  The  idea  of  arresting 
all  this  hurry  with  water  occurred  to  him. 

There  was  no  water  in  the  little  parlour  and  none  in 
the  shop.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment  whether  he  should 
not  run  upstairs  to  the  bedrooms  and  get  a  ewer  of  water 
to  throw  on  the  flames.  At  this  rate  Rumbold's  would 
be  ablaze  in  five  minutes!  Things  were  going  all  too 
fast  for  Mr.  Polly.  He  ran  towards  the  staircase  door, 
and  its  hot  breath  pulled  him  up  sharply.  Then  he  dashed 
out  through  his  shop.  The  catch  of  the  front  door  was 
sometimes  obstinate ;  it  was  now,  and  instantly  he  became 
frantic.  He  rattled  and  stormed  and  felt  the  parlour  al- 
ready ablaze  behind  him.  In  another  moment  he  was  in 
the  High  Street  with  the  door  wide  open. 

The  staircase  behind  him  was  crackling  now  like  horse- 
whips and  pistol  shots. 

He  had  a  vague  sense  that  he  wasn't  doing  as  he  had 
proposed,  but  the  chief  thing  was  his  sense  of  that  un- 
controlled fire  within.  What  was  he  going  to  do? 
There  was  the  fire  brigade  station  next  door  but 
one. 

The  Fishbourne  High  Street  had  never  seemed  so 
empty. 

Far  off  at  the  corner  by  the  God's  Providence  Inn  a 
group  of  three  stiff  hobbledehoys  in  their  black,  best 
clothes,  conversed  intermittently  with  Taplow,  the  po- 
liceman. 

"  Hi  1 "  bawled  Mr.  Polly  to  them.    "  Fire !     Fire !  " 


MAKING  AN  END   TO   THINGS         219 

and  struck  by  a  horrible  thought,  the  thought  of  Rum- 
bold's  deaf  mother-in-law  upstairs,  began  to  bang  and 
kick  and  rattle  with  the  utmost  fury  at  Rumbold's  shop 
door. 

"  Hi ! "  he  repeated,  "  Fire!  " 


III 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  great  Fishbourne  fire, 
which  burnt  its  way  sideways  into  Mr.  Rusper's  piles  of 
crates  and  straw,  and  backwards  to  the  petrol  and  sta- 
bling of  the  Royal  Fishbourne  Hotel,  and  spread  from 
that  basis  until  it  seemed  half  Fishbourne  would  be 
ablaze.  The  east  wind,  which  had  been  gathering  in 
strength  all  that  day,  fanned  the  flame;  everything  was 
dry  and  ready,  and  the  little  shed  beyond  Rumbold's  in 
which  the  local  Fire  Brigade  kept  its  manual,  was  alight 
before  the  Fishbourne  fire  hose  could  be  saved  from 
disaster.  In  marvellously  little  time  a  great  column  of 
black  smoke,  shot  with  red  streamers,  rose  out  of  the 
middle  of  the  High  Street,  and  all  Fishbourne  was  alive 
with  excitement. 

Much  of  the  more  respectable  elements  of  Fishbourne 
society  was  in  church  or  chapel;  many,  however,  had 
been  tempted  by  the  blue  sky  and  the  hard  freshness  of 
spring  to  take  walks  inland,  and  there  had  been  the  usual 
disappearance  of  loungers  and  conversationalists  from 
the  beach  and  the  back  streets  when  at  the  hour  of  six  the 
shooting  of  bolts  and  the  turning  of  keys  had  ended  the 


220         THE   HISTORY    OF.  MR.   POLLY 

British  Ramadan,  that  weekly  interlude  of  drought  our 
law  imposes.  The  youth  of  the  place  were  scattered  on 
the  beach  or  playing  in  back  yards,  under  threat  if  their 
clothes  were  dirtied,  and  the  adolescent  were  disposed 
in  pairs  among  the  more  secluded  corners  to  be  found 
upon  the  outskirts  of  the  place.  Several  godless  youths, 
seasick  but  fishing  steadily,  were  tossing  upon  the  sea 
in  old  Tarbold's,  the  infidel's,  boat,  and  the  Clamps  were 
entertaining  cousins  from  Port  Burdock.  Such  few 
visitors  as  Fishbourne  could  boast  in  the  spring  were  at 
church  or  on  the  beach.  To  all  these  that  column  of 
smoke  did  in  a  manner  address  itself.  "  Look  here !  "  it 
said,  "  this,  within  limits,  is  your  affair ;  what  are  you 
going  to  do  ?  " 

The  three  hobbledehoys,  had  it  been  a  weekday  and 
they  in  working  clothes,  might  have  felt  free  to  act,  but 
the  stiffness  of  black  was  upon  them  and  they  simply 
moved  to  the  corner  by  Rusper's  to  take  a  better  view 
of  Mr.  Polly  beating  at  the  door.  The  policeman  was  a 
young,  inexpert  constable  with  far  too  lively  a  sense  of 
the  public  house.  He  put  his  head  inside  the  Private 
Bar  to  the  horror  of  everyone  there.  But  there  was  no 
breach  of  the  law,  thank  Heaven !  "  Polly's  and  Rum- 
bold's  on  fire !  "  he  said,  and  vanished  again.  A  window 
in  the  top  story  over  Boomer's  shop  opened,  and 
Boomer,  captain  of  the  Fire  Brigade,  appeared,  staring 
out  with  a  blank  expression.  Still  staring,  he  began  to 
fumble  with  his  collar  and  tie;  manifestly  he  had  to  put 
on  his  uniform.  Hinks'  dog,  which  had  been  lying  on 


MAKING  AN  END    TO    THINGS         221 

the  pavement  outside  Watershed's,  woke  up,  and  having 
regarded  Mr.  Polly  suspiciously  for  some  time,  growled 
nervously  and  went  round  the  corner  into  Granville  Alley. 
Mr.  Polly  continued  to  beat  and  kick  at  Rumbold's 
door. 

Then  the  public  houses  began  to  vomit  forth  the  less 
desirable  elements  of  Fishbourne  society,  boys  and  men 
were  moved  to  run  and  shout,  and  more  windows  went 
up  as  the  stir  increased.  Tashingford,  the  chemist,  ap- 
peared at  his  door,  in  shirt  sleeves  and  an  apron,  with 
his  photographic  plate  holders  in  his  hand.  And  then 
like  a  vision  of  purpose  came  Mr.  Gambell,  the  green- 
grocer, running  out  of  Clayford's  Alley  and  buttoning 
on  his  jacket  as  he  ran.  His  great  brass  fireman's  hel- 
met was  on  his  head,  hiding  it  all  but  the  sharp  nose, 
the  firm  mouth,  the  intrepid  chin.  He  ran  straight  to 
the  fire  station  and  tried  the  door,  and  turned  about  and 
met  the  eye  of  Boomer  still  at  his  upper  window.  "  The 
key!"  cried  Mr.  Gambell,  "the  key!" 

Mr.  Boomer  made  some  inaudible  explanation  about 
his  trousers  and  half  a  minute. 

"Seen  old  Rumbold?"  cried  Mr.  Polly,  approaching 
Mr.  Gambell. 

"  Gone  over  Downford  for  a  walk,"  said  Mr.  Gam- 
bell.  "  He  told  me !  But  look  'ere !  We  'aven't  got  the 
key!" 

"  Lord ! "  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  regarded  the  china  shop 
with  open  eyes.  He  knew  the  old  woman  must  be  there 
alone.  He  went  back  to  the  shop  front  and  stood  sur- 


222         THE   HISTORY   OF   MR.   POLLY 

veying  it  in  infinite  perplexity.  The  other  activities  in 
the  street  did  not  interest  him.  A  deaf  old  lady  some- 
where upstairs  there !  Precious  moments  passing !  Sud- 
denly he  was  struck  by  an  idea  and  vanished  from  pub- 
lic vision  into  the  open  door  of  the  Royal  Fishbourne 
Tap. 

And  now  the  street  was  getting  crowded  and  people 
were  laying  their  hands  to  this  and  that. 

Mr.  Rusper  had  been  at  home  reading  a  number  of 
tracts  upon  Tariff  Reform,  during  the  quiet  of  his  wife's 
absence  in  church,  and  trying  to  work  out  the  applica- 
tion of  the  whole  question  to  ironmongery.  He  heard  a 
clattering  in  the  street  and  for  a  time  disregarded  it, 
until  a  cry  of  Fire!  drew  him  to  the  window.  He 
pencilled-marked  the  tract  of  Chiozza  Money's  that  he 
was  reading  side  by  side  with  one  by  Mr.  Holt  School- 
ing, made  a  hasty  note  "  Bal.  of  Trade  say  12,000,000  " 
and  went  to  look  out.  Instantly  he  opened  the  window 
and  ceased  to  believe  the  Fiscal  Question  the  most  urgent 
of  human  affairs. 

"  Good  (kik)  Gud !  "  said  Mr.  Rusper. 

For  now  the  rapidly  spreading  blaze  had  forced  the 
partition  into  Mr.  Rumbold's  premises,  swept  across 
his  cellar,  clambered  his  garden  wall  by  means  of  his 
well-tarred  mushroom  shed,  and  assailed  the  engine 
house.  It  stayed  not  to  consume,  but  ran  as  a  thing  that 
seeks  a  quarry.  Polly's  shop  and  upper  parts  were  al- 
ready a  furnace,  and  black  smoke  was  coming  out  of 
Rumbold's  cellar  gratings.  The  fire  in  the  engine  house 


MAKING  AN  END   TO    THINGS         223 

showed  only  as  a  sudden  rush  of  smoke  from  the  back, 
like  something  suddenly  blown  up.  The  fire  brigade, 
still  much  under  strength,  were  now  hard  at  work  in  the 
front  of  the  latter  building;  they  had  got  the  door  open 
all  too  late,  they  had  "escued  the  fire  escape  and  some 
buckets,  and  were  now  lugging  out  their  manual,  with 
the  hose  already  a  dripping  mass  of  molten,  flaring, 
stinking  rubber.  Boomer  was  dancing  about  and  swear- 
ing and  shouting;  this  direct  attack  upon  his  apparatus 
outraged  his  sense  of  chivalry.  The  rest  of  the  brigade 
hovered  in  a  disheartened  state  about  the  rescued  fire 
escape,  and  tried  to  piece  Boomer's  comments  into  some 
tangible  instructions. 

"  Hi !  "  said  Rusper  from  the  window.  "  Kik !  What's 
up?" 

Gambell  answered  him  out  of  his  helmet.  "  Hose !  " 
he  cried.  "  Hose  gone !  " 

"  I  (kik)  got  hose!  "  cried  Rusper. 

He  had.  He  had  a  stock  of  several  thousand  feet 
of  garden  hose,  of  various  qualities  and  calibres,  and  now 
he  felt  was  the  time  to  use  it.  In  another  moment  his 
shop  door  was  open  and  he  was  hurling  pails,  garden 
syringes,  and  rolls  of  garden  hose  out  upon  the  pave- 
ment. "  (Kik),"  he  cried,  "undo  it!"  to  the  gathering 
crowd  in  the  roadway. 

They  did.  Presently  a  hundred  ready  hands  were 
unrolling  and  spreading  and  tangling  up  and  twisting 
and  hopelessly  involving  Mr.  Rusper's  stock  of  hose, 
sustained  by  an  unquenchable  assurance  that  presently 


224         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

it  would  in  some  manner  contain  and  convey  water,  and 
Mr.  Rusper,  on  his  knees,  kicking  violently,  became  in- 
credibly busy  with  wire  and  brass  junctions  and  all 
sorts  of  mysteries. 

"  Fix  it  to  the  (kik)  bathroom  tap ! "  said  Mr. 
Rusper. 

Next  door  to  the  fire  station  was  Mantell  and  Throb- 
son's,  the  little  Fishbourne  branch  of  that  celebrated 
firm,  and  Mr.  Boomer,  seeking  in  a  teeming  mind  for  a 
plan  of  action,  had  determined  to  save  this  building. 
"  Someone  telephone  to  the  Port  Burdock  and  Hamp- 
stead-on-Sea  fire  brigades,"  he  cried  to  the  crowd  and 
then  to  his  fellows:  "  Cut  away  the  woodwork  of  the 
fire  station ! "  and  so  led  the  way  into  the  blaze  with 
a  whirling  hatchet  that  effected  wonders  in  no  time  in 
ventilation. 

But  it  was  not,  after  all,  such  a  bad  idea  of  his. 
Mantell  and  Throbsons  was  separated  from  the  fire 
station  in  front  by  a  covered  glass  passage,  and  at  the 
back  the  roof  of  a  big  outhouse  sloped  down  to  the  fire 
station  leads.  The  sturdy  'longshoremen,  who  made  up 
the  bulk  of  the  fire  brigade,  assailed  the  glass  roof  of  the 
passage  with  extraordinary  gusto,  and  made  a  smashing 
of  glass  that  drowned  for  a  time  the  rising  uproar  of 
the  flames. 

A  number  of  willing  volunteers  started  off  to  the 
new  telephone  office  in  obedience  to  Mr.  Boomer's  re- 
quest, only  to  be  told  with  cold  official  politeness  by  the 
young  lady  at  the  exchange  that  all  that  had  been  done 


225 

on  her  own  initiative  ten  minutes  ago.  She  parleyed 
with  these  heated  enthusiasts  for  a  space,  and  then  re- 
turned to  the  window. 

And  indeed  the  spectacle  was  well  worth  looking  at. 
The  dusk  was  falling,  and  the  flames  were  showing  bril- 
liantly at  half  a  dozen  points.  The  Royal  Fishbourne 
Hotel  Tap,  which  adjoined  Mr.  Polly  to  the  west,  was  be- 
ing kept  wet  by  the  enthusiastic  efforts  of  a  string  of  vol- 
unteers with  buckets  of  water,  and  above  at  a  bathroom 
window  the  little  German  waiter  was  busy  with  the  garden 
hose.  But  Mr.  Polly's  establishment  looked  more  like 
a  house  afire  than  most  houses  on  fire  contrive  to  look 
from  start  to  finish.  Every  window  showed  eager  flick- 
ering flames,  and  flames  like  serpents'  tongues  were  lick- 
ing out  of  three  large  holes  in  the  roof,  which  was 
already  beginning  to  fall  in.  Behind,  larger  and  abun- 
dantly spark-shot  gusts  of  fire  rose  from  the  fodder  that 
was  now  getting  alight  in  the  Royal  Fishbourne  Hotel 
stables.  Next  door  to  Mr.  Polly,  Mr.  Rumbold's  house 
was  disgorging  black  smoke  from  the  gratings  that  pro- 
tected its  underground  windows,  and  smoke  and  occa- 
sional shivers  of  flame  were  also  coming  out  of  its 
first-floor  windows.  The  fire  station  was  better  alight 
at  the  back  than  in  front,  and  its  woodwork  burnt  pretty 
briskly  with  peculiar  greenish  flickerings,  and  a  pungent 
flavour.  In  the  street  an  inaggressively  disorderly 
crowd  clambered  over  the  rescued  fire  escape  and  resisted 
the  attempts  of  the  three  local  constables  to  get  it  away 
from  the  danger  of  Mr.  Polly's  tottering  fagade,  a  clus- 


226         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

ter  of  busy  forms  danced  and  shouted  and  advised  on  the 
noisy  and  smashing  attempt  to  cut  off  Mantell  and 
Throbson's  from  the  fire  station  that  was  still  in  inef- 
fectual progress.  Further  a  number  of  people  appeared 
to  be  destroying  interminable  red  and  grey  snakes  un- 
der the  heated  direction  of  Mr.  Rusper ;  it  was  as  if  the 
High  Street  had  a  plague  of  worms,  and  beyond  again 
the  more  timid  and  less  active  crowded  in  front  of  an 
accumulation  of  arrested  traffic.  Most  of  the  men  were 
in  Sabbatical  black,  and  this  and  the  white  and  starched 
quality  of  the  women  and  children  in  their  best  clothes 
gave  a  note  of  ceremony  to  the  whole  affair. 

For  a  moment  the  attention  of  the  telephone  clerk 
was  held  by  the  activities  of  Mr.  Tashingford,  the  chem- 
ist, who,  regardless  of  everyone  else,  was  rushing  across 
the  road  hurling  fire  grenades  into  the  fire  station  and 
running  back  for  more,  and  then  her  eyes  lifted  to  the 
slanting  outhouse  roof  that  went  up  to  a  ridge  behind 
the  parapet  of  Mantell  and  Throbson's.  An  expression 
of  incredulity  came  into  the  telephone  operator's  eyes 
and  gave  place  to  hard  activity.  She  flung  up  the  win- 
dow and  screamed  out :  "  Two  people  on  the  roof  up 
there !  Two  people  on  the  roof !  " 

IV 

Her  eyes  had  not  deceived  her.  Two  figures  which 
had  emerged  from  the  upper  staircase  window  of  Mr. 
Rumbold's  and  had  got  after  a  perilous  paddle  in  his 


MAKING  AN  END   TO    THINGS         227 

cistern,  on  to  the  fire  station,  were  now  slowly  but  reso- 
lutely clambering  up  the  outhouse  roof  towards  the  back 
of  the  main  premises  of  Messrs.  Mantell  and  Throbson's. 
They  clambered  slowly  and  one  urged  and  helped  the 
other,  slipping  and  pausing  ever  and  again,  amidst  a  con- 
stant trickle  of  fragments  of  broken  tile. 

One  was  Mr.  Polly,  with  his  hair  wildly  disordered, 
his  face  covered  with  black  smudges  and  streaked  with 
perspiration,  and  his  trouser  legs  scorched  and  blackened ; 
the  other  was  an  elderly  lady,  quietly  but  becomingly 
dressed  in  black,  with  small  white  frills  at  her  neck  and 
wrists  and  a  Sunday  cap  of  ecru  lace  enlivened  with 
a  black  velvet  bow.  Her  hair  was  brushed  back  from 
her  wrinkled  brow  and  plastered  down  tightly,  meeting 
in  a  small  knob  behind;  her  wrinkled  mouth  bore  that 
expression  of  supreme  resolution  common  with  the 
toothless  aged.  She  was  shaky,  not  with  fear,  but  with 
the  vibrations  natural  to  her  years,  and  she  spoke  with 
the  slow  quavering  firmness  of  the  very  aged. 

"  I  don't  mind  scrambling,"  she  said  with  piping  inflex- 
ibility, "  but  I  can't  jump  and  I  wunt  jump." 

"  Scramble,  old  lady,  then — scramble !  "  said  Mr.  Polly, 
pulling  her  arm.  "  It's  one  up  and  two  down  on  these 
blessed  tiles." 

"  It's  not  what  I'm  used  to,"  she  said. 

"  Stick  to  it ! "  said  Mr.  Polly,  "  live  and  learn,"  and 
got  to  the  ridge  and  grasped  at  her  arm  to  pull  her  after 
him. 

"  I  can't  jump,  mind  ye,"  she  repeated,  pressing  her 


228         THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

lips  together.  "  And  old  ladies  like  me  mustn't  be 
hurried." 

"  Well,  let's  get  as  high  as  possible  anyhow !  "  said 
Mr.  Polly,  urging  her  gently  upward.  "  Shinning  up 
a  water-spout  in  your  line?  Near  as  you'll  get  to 
Heaven." 

"  I  can't  jump,"  she  said.  "  I  can  do  anything  but 
jump." 

"  Hold  on !  "  said  Mr.  Polly,  "  while  I  give  you  a  boost. 
That's— wonderful." 

"  So  long  as  it  isn't  jumping.     .     .     ." 

The  old  lady  grasped  the  parapet  above,  and  there 
was  a  moment  of  intense  struggle. 

"Urup!"  said  Mr.  Polly.  "Hold  on!  Gollys! 
where's  she  gone  to?  .  .  ." 

Then  an  ill-mended,  wavering,  yet  very  reassuring 
spring  side  boot  appeared  for  an  instant. 

"  Thought  perhaps  there  wasn't  any  roof  there ! "  he 
explained,  scrambling  up  over  the  parapet  beside  her. 

"  I've  never  been  out  on  a  roof  before,"  said  the  old 
lady.  "  I'm  all  disconnected.  It's  very  bumpy.  Espe- 
cially that  last  bit.  Can't  we  sit  here  for  a  bit  and  rest? 
I'm  not  the  girl  I  useto  be." 

"  You  sit  here  ten  minutes,"  shouted  Mr.  Polly,  "  and 
you'll  pop  like  a  roast  chestnut.  Don't  understand  me? 
Roast  chestnut!  ROAST  CHESTNUT!  POP!  There  ought 
to  be  a  limit  to  deafness.  Come  on  round  to  the  front 
and  see  if  we  can  find  an  attic  window.  Look  at  this 
smoke ! " 


MAKING  AN   END    TO    THINGS         229 

"  Nasty !  "  said  the  old  lady,  her  eyes  following  his 
gesture,  puckering  her  face  into  an  expression  of  great 
distaste. 

"Come  on!" 

"  Can't  hear  a  word  you  say." 

He  pulled  her  arm.     "  Come  on !  " 

She  paused  for  a  moment  to  relieve  herself  of  a  series 
of  entirely  unexpected  chuckles.  "  Sich  goings  on ! "  she 
said,  "  I  never  did  !  Where's  he  going  now  ?  "  and  came 
along  behind  the  parapet  to  the  front  of  the  drapery 
establishment. 

Below,  the  street  was  now  fully  alive  to  their  pres- 
ence, and  encouraged  the  appearance  of  their  heads  by 
shouts  and  cheers.  A  sort  of  free  fight  was  going  on 
round  the  fire  escape,  order  represented  by  Mr.  Boomer 
and  the  very  young  policeman,  and  disorder  by  some  par- 
tially intoxicated  volunteers  with  views  of  their  own 
about  the  manipulation  of  the  apparatus.  Two  or  three 
lengths  of  Mr.  Rusper's  garden  hose  appeared  to  have 
twined  themselves  round  the  ladder.  Mr.  Polly  watched 
the  struggle  with  a  certain  impatience,  and  glanced  ever 
and  again  over  his  shoulder  at  the  increasing  volume 
of  smoke  and  steam  that  was  pouring  up  from  the 
burning  fire  station.  He  decided  to  break  an  attic  win- 
dow and  get  in,  and  so  try  and  get  down  through  the 
shop.  He  found  himself  in  a  little  bedroom,  and  re- 
turned to  fetch  his  charge.  For  some  time  he  could 
not  make  her  understand  his  purpose. 

"  Got  to  come  at  once !  "  he  shouted. 


230         THE   HISTORY   OF   MR.   POLLY 

"  I  hain't  'ad  sich  a  time  for  years !  "  said  the  old 
lady. 

"  We'll  have  to  get  down  through  the  house !  " 

"  Can't  do  no  jumpin',"  said  the  old  lady.    "  No !  " 

She  yielded  reluctantly  to  his  grasp. 

She  stared  over  the  parapet.  "  Runnin'  and  scurry- 
ing about  like  black  beetles  in  a  kitchin/'  she  said. 

"We've  got  to  hurry." 

"  Mr.  Rumbold  'E's  a  very  Quiet  man.  'E  likes  every- 
thing Quiet.  He'll  be  surprised  to  see  me  'ere !  Why ! 
— there  'e  is ! "  She  fumbled  in  her  garments  mysteri- 
ously and  at  last  produced  a  wrinkled  pocket  handker- 
chief and  began  to  wave  it. 

"  Oh,  come  ON  !  "  cried  Mr.  Polly,  and  seized  her. 

He  got  her  into  the  attic,  but  the  staircase,  he  found, 
was  full  of  suffocating  smoke,  and  he  dared  not  venture 
below  the  next  floor.  He  took  her  into  a  long  dormi- 
tory, shut  the  door  on  those  pungent  and  pervasive 
fumes,  and  opened  the  window  to  discover  the  fire  escape 
was  now  against  the  house,  and  all  Fishbourne  boiling 
with  excitement  as  an  immensely  helmeted  and  active  and 
resolute  little  figure  ascended.  In  another  moment  the 
rescuer  stared  over  the  windowsill,  heroic,  but  just  a 
trifle  self-conscious  and  grotesque. 

"  Lawks  a  mussy !  "  said  the  old  lady.  "  Wonders  and 
Wonders!  Why!  it's  Mr.  Gambell!  'Iding  'is  'ed  in 
that  thing !  I  never  did !  " 

"  Can  we  get  her  out  ?  "  said  Mr.  Gambell.  "  There's 
not  much  time." 


MAKING  AN   END    TO    THINGS         231 

"  He  might  git  stuck  in  it." 

"  You'll  get  stuck  in  it,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  "  come 
along!" 

"  Not  for  jumpin'  I  don't,"  said  the  old  lady,  under- 
standing his  gestures  rather  than  his  words.  "  Not  a  bit 
of  it.  I  hain't  no  good  at  jumping  and  I  wunt." 

They  urged  her  gently  but  firmly  towards  the  window. 

"  You  lemme  do  it  my  own  way,"  said  the  old  lady 
at  the  sill.  .  .  . 

"  I  could  do  it  better  if  'e'd  take  it  off." 

"  Oh  !  carm  on !  " 

"  It's  wuss  than  Carter's  stile,"  she  said,  "  before  they 
mended  it.  With  a  cow  a-looking  at  you." 

Mr.  Gambell  hovered  protectingly  below.  Mr.  Polly 
steered  her  aged  limbs  from  above.  An  anxious  crowd 
below  babbled  advice  and  did  its  best  to  upset  the  fire 
escape.  Within,  streamers  of  black  smoke  were  pouring 
up  through  the  cracks  in  the  floor.  For  some  seconds 
the  world  waited  while  the  old  lady  gave  herself  up  to 
reckless  mirth  again.  "  Sich  times ! "  she  said,  and 
"Poor  Rumbold!" 

Slowly  they  descended,  and  Mr.  Polly  remained  at  the 
post  of  danger  steadying  the  long  ladder  until  the  old 
lady  was  in  safety  below  and  sheltered  by  Mr.  Rum- 
bold  (who  was  in  tears)  and  the  young  policeman  from 
the  urgent  congratulations  of  the  crowd.  The  crowd 
was  full  of  an  impotent  passion  to  participate.  Those 
nearest  wanted  to  shake  her  hand,  those  remoter  cheered. 

"  The  fust  fire  I  was  ever  in  and  likely  to  be  my  last. 


232         THE   HISTORY.   OF   MR.   POLLY 

It's  a  scurryin',  'urryin'  business,  but  I'm  real  glad  I 
haven't  missed  it,"  said  the  old  lady  as  she  was  borne 
rather  than  led  towards  the  refuge  of  the  Temperance 
Hotel. 

Also  she  was  heard  to  remark :  "  'E  was  saying  some- 
thing about  'ot  chestnuts.  7  'aven't  'ad  no  'ot  chest- 
nuts." 

Then  the  crowd  became  aware  of  Mr.  Polly  awkwardly 
negotiating  the  top  rungs  of  the  fire  escape.  "  'Ere  'e 
comes ! "  cried  a  voice,  and  Mr.  Polly  descended  into  the 
world  again  out  of  the  conflagration  he  had  lit  to  be  his 
funeral  pyre,  moist,  excited,  and  tremendously  alive, 
amidst  a  tempest  of  applause.  As  he  got  lower  and 
lower  the  crowd  howled  like  a  pack  of  dogs  at  him. 
Impatient  men  unable  to  wait  for  him  seized  and  shook 
his  descending  boots,  and  so  brought  him  to  earth  with 
a  run.  He  was  rescued  with  difficulty  from  an  enthu- 
siast who  wished  to  slake  at  his  own  expense  and  to  his 
own  accompaniment  a  thirst  altogether  heroic.  He  was 
hauled  into  the  Temperance  Hotel  and  flung  like  a 
sack,  breathless  and  helpless,  into  the  tear-wet  embrace 
of  Miriam. 


With  the  dusk  and  the  arrival  of  some  county  con- 
stabulary, and  first  one  and  presently  two  other  fire  en- 
gines from  Port  Burdock  and  Hampstead-on-Sea,  the 
local  talent  of  Fishbourne  found  itself  forced  back  into 
a  secondary,  less  responsible  and  more  observant  role. 


MAKING  AN  END    TO    THINGS  .       233 

I  will  not  pursue  the  story  of  the  fire  to  its  ashes,  nor 
•will  I  do  more  than  glance  at  the  unfortunate  Mr.  Rus- 
per,  a  modern  Laocoon,  vainly  trying  to  retrieve  his 
scattered  hose  amidst  the  tramplings  and  rushings  of 
the  Port  Burdock  experts. 

In  a  small  sitting-room  of  the  Fishbourne  Temperance 
Hotel  a  little  group  of  Fishbourne  tradesmen  sat  and 
conversed  in  fragments  and  anon  went  to  the  window 
and  looked  out  upon  the  smoking  desolation  of  their 
homes  across  the  way,  and  anon  sat  down  again.  They 
and  their  families  were  the  guests  of  old  Lady  Bar- 
grave,  who  had  displayed  the  utmost  sympathy  and  inter- 
est in  their  misfortunes.  She  had  taken  several  people 
into  her  own  house  at  Everdean,  had  engaged  the  Tem- 
perance Hotel  as  a  temporary  refuge,  and  personally 
superintended  the  housing  of  Mantell  and  Throbson's 
homeless  assistants.  The  Temperance  Hotel  became 
and  remained  extremely  noisy  and  congested,  with  peo- 
ple sitting  about  anywhere,  conversing  in  fragments  and 
totally  unable  to  get  themselves  to  bed.  The  manager 
was  an  old  soldier,  and  following  the  best  traditions  of 
the  service  saw  that  everyone  had  hot  cocoa.  Hot  cocoa 
seemed  to  be  about  everywhere,  and  it  was  no  doubt  very 
heartening  and  sustaining  to  everyone.  When  the  man- 
ager detected  anyone  disposed  to  be  drooping  or  pensive 
he  exhorted  that  person  at  once  to  drink  further  hot 
cocoa  and  maintain  a  stout  heart. 

The  hero  of  the  occasion,  the  centre  of  interest,  was 
Mr.  Polly.  For  he  had  not  only  caused  the  fire  by  up- 


234         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

setting  a  lighted  lamp,  scorching  his  trousers  and  nar- 
rowly escaping  death,  as  indeed  he  had  now  explained 
in  detail  about  twenty  times,  but  he  had  further  thought 
at  once  of  that  amiable  but  helpless  old  lady  next  door, 
had  shown  the  utmost  decision  in  making  his  way  to 
her  over  the  yard  wall  of  the  Royal  Fishbourne  Hotel, 
and  had  rescued  her  with  persistence  and  vigour  in  spite 
of  the  levity  natural  to  her  years.  Everyone  thought  well 
of  him  and  was  anxious  to  show  it,  more  especially  by 
shaking  his  hand  painfully  and  repeatedly.  Mr.  Rum- 
bold,  breaking  a  silence  of  nearly  fifteen  years,  thanked 
him  profusely,  said  he  had  never  understood  him  prop- 
erly and  declared  he  ought  to  have  a  medal.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  widely  diffused  idea  that  Mr.  Polly  ought 
to  have  a  medal.  Hinks  thought  so.  He  declared,  more- 
over, and  with  the  utmost  emphasis,  that  Mr.  Polly  had 
a  crowded  and  richly  decorated  interior — or  words  to 
that  effect.  There  was  something  apologetic  in  this  per- 
sistence ;  it  was  as  if  he  regretted  past  intimations  that 
Mr.  Polly  was  internally  defective  and  hollow.  He  also 
said  that  Mr.  Polly  was  a  "  white  man,"  albeit,  as  he 
developed  it,  with  a  liver  of  the  deepest  chromatic  satis- 
factions. 

Mr.  Polly  wandered  centrally  through  it  all,  with  his 
face  washed  and  his  hair  carefully  brushed  and  parted, 
looking  modest  and  more  than  a  little  absent-minded, 
and  wearing  a  pair  of  black  dress  trowsers  belonging  to 
the  manager  of  the  Temperance  Hotel, — a  larger  man 
than  himself  in  every  way. 


235 

He  drifted  upstairs  to  his  fellow-tradesmen,  and  stood 
for  a  time  staring  into  the  littered  street,  with  its  pools 
of  water  and  extinguished  gas  lamps.  His  companions 
in  misfortune  resumed  a  fragmentary  disconnected  con- 
versation. They  touched  now  on  one  aspect  of  the  dis- 
aster and  now  on  another,  and  there  were  intervals  of 
silence.  More  or  less  empty  cocoa  cups  were  distributed 
over  the  table,  mantelshelf  and  piano,  and  in  the  middle 
of  the  table  was  a  tin  of  biscuits,  into  which  Mr.  Rum- 
bold,  sitting  round-shoulderedly,  dipped  ever  and  again 
in  an  absent-minded  way,  and  munched  like  a  distant 
shooting  of  coals.  It  added  to  the  solemnity  of  the  affair 
that  nearly  all  of  them  were  in  their  black  Sunday  clothes ; 
little  Clamp  was  particularly  impressive  and  dignified 
in  a  wide  open  frock  coat,  a  Gladstone-shaped  paper 
collar,  and  a  large  white  and  blue  tie.  They  felt  that 
they  were  in  the  presence  of  a  great  disaster,  the  sort  of 
disaster  that  gets  into  the  papers,  and  is  even  illus- 
trated by  blurred  photographs  of  the  crumbling  ruins. 
In  the  presence  of  that  sort  of  disaster  all  honourable 
men  are  lugubrious  and  sententious. 

And  yet  it  is  impossible  to  deny  a  certain  element  of 
elation.  Not  one  of  those  excellent  men  but  was  already 
realising  that  a  great  door  had  opened,  as  it  were,  in  the 
opaque  fabric  of  destiny,  that  they  were  to  get  their 
money  again  that  had  seemed  sunken  for  ever  beyond 
any  hope  in  the  deeps  of  retail  trade.  Life  was  already 
in  their  imagination  rising  like  a  Phoenix  from  the 
flames. 


236         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

"I  suppose  there'll  be  a  public  subscription,"  said 
Mr.  Clamp. 

"  Not  for  those  who're  insured,"  said  Mr.  Winter- 
shed. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  them  assistants  from  Mantell  and 
Throbson's.  They  must  have  lost  nearly  everything." 

"They'll  be  looked  after  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Rum- 
bold.  "  Never  fear." 

Pause. 

"I'm  insured,"  said  Mr.  Clamp,  with  unconcealed 
satisfaction.  "  Royal  Salamander." 

"  Same  here,"  said  Mr.  Wintershed. 

"  Mine's  the  Glasgow  Sun,"  Mr.  Hinks  remarked. 
"  Very  good  company." 

"You  insured,  Mr.  Polly?" 

"  He  deserves  to  be,"  said  Rumbold. 

"  Ra-ther,"  said  Hinks.  "  Blowed  if  he  don't.  Hard 
lines  it  -would  be — if  there  wasn't  something  for  him." 

"  Commercial  and  General,"  answered  Mr.  Polly  over 
his  shoulder,  still  staring  out  of  the  window.  "  Oh ! 
I'm  all  right." 

The  topic  dropped  for  a  time,  though  manifestly  it  con- 
tinued to  exercise  their  minds. 

"  It's  cleared  me  out  of  a  lot  of  old  stock,"  said  Mr. 
Wintershed ;  "  that's  one  good  thing." 

The  remark  was  felt  to  be  in  rather  questionable  taste, 
and  still  more  so  was  his  next  comment. 

"  Rusper's  a  bit  sick  it  didn't  reach  'im." 

Everyone  looked  uncomfortable,  and  no  one  was  will- 


MAKING  AN  END   TO    THINGS         237 

ing  to  point  the  reason  why  Rusper  should  be  a  bit 
sick. 

"  Rusper's  been  playing  a  game  of  his  own,"  said 
Hinks.  "  Wonder  what  he  thought  he  was  up  to !  Sit- 
tin'  in  the  middle  of  the  road  with  a  pair  of  tweezers 
he  was,  and  about  a  yard  of  wire — mending  somethin'. 
Wonder  he  warn't  run  over  by  the  Port  Burdock  en- 
gine." 

Presently  a  little  chat  sprang  up  upon  the  causes  of 
fires,  and  Mr.  Polly  was  moved  to  tell  how  it  had  hap- 
pened for  the  one  and  twentieth  time.  His  story  had 
now  become  as  circumstantial  and  exact  as  the  evidence 
of  a  police  witness.  "  Upset  the  lamp,"  he  said.  "  I'd 
just  lighted  it,  I  was  going  upstairs,  and  my  foot  slipped 
against  where  one  of  the  treads  was  a  bit  rotten,  and 
down  I  went.  Thing  was  aflare  in  a  moment !  .  .  ." 

He  yawned  at  the  end  of  the  discussion,  and  moved 
doorward. 

"  So  long,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Good  night,"  said  Mr.  Rumbold.  "  You  played  a 
brave  man's  part!  If  you  don't  get  a  medal " 

He  left  an  eloquent  pause. 

"  'Ear,  'ear ! "  said  Mr.  Wintershed  and  Mr.  Clamp. 
"Goo'night,  O'  Man,"  said  Mr.  Hinks. 

"  Goo'night  All,"  said  Mr.  Polly     .     .     . 

He  went  slowly  upstairs.  The  vague  perplexity  com- 
mon to  popular  heroes  pervaded  his  mind.  He  entered 
the  bedroom  and  turned  up  the  electric  light.  It  was 
quite  a  pleasant  room,  one  of  the  best  in  the  Temperance 


238         THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

Hotel,  with  a  nice  clean  flowered  wallpaper,  and  a  very 
large  looking-glass.  Miriam  appeared  to  be  asleep,  and 
her  shoulders  were  humped  up  under  the  clothes  in  a 
shapeless,  forbidding  lump  that  Mr.  Polly  had  found  ut- 
terly loathsome  for  fifteen  years.  He  went  softly  over 
to  the  dressing-table  and  surveyed  himself  thoughtfully. 
Presently  he  hitched  up  the  trowsers.  "  Miles  too  big 
for  me,"  he  remarked.  "  Funny  not  to  have  a  pair  of 
breeches  of  one's  own.  .  .  .  Like  being  born  again. 
Naked  came  I  into  the  world.  .  .  ." 

Miriam  stirred  and  rolled  over,  and  stared  at  him. 

"  Hello !  "  she  said. 

"  Hello." 

"Come  to  bed?" 

"  It's  three." 

Pause,  while  Mr.  Polly  disrobed  slowly. 

"  I  been  thinking,"  said  Miriam.  "  It  isn't  going  to 
be  so  bad  after  all.  We  shall  get  your  insurance.  We 
can  easy  begin  all  over  again." 

"  H'm,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

She  turned  her  face  away  from  him  and  reflected. 

"  Get  a  better  house,"  said  Miriam,  regarding  the 
wallpaper  pattern.  "  I've  always  'ated  them  stairs." 

Mr.  Polly  removed  a  boot. 

"  Choose  a  better  position  where  there's  more  doing," 
murmured  Miriam.  .  .  . 

"  Not  half  so  bad,"  she  whispered.     .     .     . 

"  You  wanted  stirring  up,"  she  said,  half  asleep.    .    .    . 


MAKING  AN  END    TO    THINGS         239 

It  dawned  upon  Mr.  Polly  for  the  first  time  that  he 
had  forgotten  something. 

He  ought  to  have  cut  his  throat! 

The  fact  struck  him  as  remarkable,  but  as  now  no 
longer  of  any  particular  urgency.  It  seemed  a  thing  far 
off  in  the  past,  and  he  wondered  why  he  had  not  thought 
of  it  before.  Odd  thing  life  is!  If  he  had  done  it  he 
would  never  have  seen  this  clean  and  agreeable  apart- 
ment with  the  electric  light.  .  .  .  His  thoughts  wan- 
dered into  a  question  of  detail.  Where  could  he  have 
put  the  razor  down?  Somewhere  in  the  little  room  be- 
hind the  shop,  he  supposed,  but  he  could  not  think  where 
more  precisely.  Anyhow  it  didn't  matter  now. 

He  undressed  himself  calmly,  got  into  bed,  and  fell 
asleep  almost  immediately. 


t 
THE  POTWELL  INN 


CHAPTER   THE   NINTH 

THE  POTWELL  INN 


BUT  when  a  man  has  once  broken  through  the 
paper  walls  of  everyday  circumstance,  those  un- 
substantial walls  that  hold  so  many  of  us  securely 
prisoned  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  he  has  made  a 
discovery.  If  the  world  does  not  please  you  you  can 
thange  it.  Determine  to  alter  it  at  any  price,  and  you 
can  change  it  altogether.  You  may  change  it  to  some- 
thing sinister  and  angry,  to  something  appalling,  but 
it  may  be  you  will  change  it  to  something  brighter,  some- 
thing more  agreeable,  and  at  the  worst  something  much 
more  interesting.  There  is  only  one  sort  of  man  who  is 
absolutely  to  blame  for  his  own  misery,  and  that  is  the 
man  who  finds  life  dull  and  dreary.  There  are  no  cir- 
cumstances in  the  world  that  determined  action  cannot 
alter,  unless  perhaps  they  are  the  walls  of  a  prison  cell, 
and  even  those  will  dissolve  and  change,  I  am  told,  into 
the  infirmary  compartment  at  any  rate,  for  the  man  who 
can  fast  with  resolution.  I  give  these  things  as  facts 
and  information,  and  with  no  moral  intimations.  And 
Mr.  Polly  lying  awake  at  nights,  with  a  renewed  indi- 

243 


244         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY. 

gestion,  with  Miriam  sleeping  sonorously  beside  him  and 
a  general  air  of  inevitableness  about  his  situation,  saw 
through  it,  understood  there  was  no  inevitable  any  more, 
and  escaped  his  former  despair. 

He  could,  for  example,  "  clear  out." 

It  became  a  wonderful  and  alluring  phrase  to  him : 
"clear  out!" 

Why  had  he  never  thought  of  clearing  out  before? 

He  was  amazed  and  a  little  shocked  at  the  unimagina- 
tive and  superfluous  criminality  in  him  that  had  turned 
old  cramped  and  stagnant  Fishbourne  into  a  blaze  and 
new  beginnings.  (I  wish  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart 
I  could  add  that  he  was  properly  sorry.)  But  something 
constricting  and  restrained  seemed  to  have  been  de- 
stroyed by  that  flare.  Fishbourne  wasn't  the  world. 
That  was  the  new,  the  essential  fact  of  which  he  had 
lived  so  lamentably  in  ignorance.  Fishbourne  as  he  had 
known  it  and  hated  it,  so  that  he  wanted  to  kill  himself 
to  get  out  of  it,  wasn't  the  world. 

The  insurance  money  he  was  to  receive  made  every- 

-thing_'  humane  and  kindly  and  practicable.     He  would 

i<"  clear  out,"   with   justice   and   humanity.     He   would 

take  exactly  twenty-one  pounds,  and  all  the  rest  he  would 

leave  to  Miriam.     That  seemed  to  him  absolutely  fair. 

Without   him,    she    could    do    all    sorts    of   things — all 

the  sorts  of  things  she  was  constantly  urging  him  to 

do. 

And  he  would  go  off  along  the  white  road  that  led 
to  Garchester,  and  on  to  Crogate  and  so  to  Tunbridge 


THE  POT  WELL  INN  245 

Wells,  where  there  was  a  Toad  Rock  he  had  heard  of, 
but  never  seen.  (It  seemed  to  him  this  must  needs  be 
a  marvel.)  And  so  to  other  towns  and  cities.  He  would 
walk  and  loiter  by  the  way,  and  sleep  in  inns  at  night, 
and  get  an  odd  job  here  and  there  and  talk  to  strange 
people.  Perhaps  he  would  get  quite  a  lot  of  work  and 
prosper,  and  if  he  did  not  do  so  he  would  lie  down  in 
front  of  a  train,  or  wait  for  a  warm  night,  and  then 
fall  into  some  smooth,  broad  river.  Not  so  bad  as  sit- 
ting down  to  a  dentist,  not  nearly  so  bad.  And  he  would 
never  open  a  shop  any  more.  Never! 

So  the  possibilities  of  the  future  presented  themselves 
to  Mr.  Polly  as  he  lay  awake  at  nights. 

It  was  springtime,  and  in  the  woods  so  soon  as  one 
got  out  of  reach  of  the  sea  wind  there  would  be  anemones 
and  primroses. 

II 

A  month  later  a  leisurely  and  dusty  tramp,  plump 
equatorially  and  slightly  bald,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  his  lips  puckered  to  a  contemplative  whistle, 
strolled  along  the  river  bank  between  Uppingdon  and 
Potwell.  It  was  a  profusely  budding  spring  day  and 
greens  such  as  God  had  never  permitted  in  the  world 
before  in  human  memory  (though  indeed  they  come  every 
year),  were  mirrored  vividly  in  a  mirror  of  equally  un- 
precedented brown.  For  a  time  the  wanderer  stopped 
and  stood  still,  and  even  the  thin  whistle  died  away  from 
his  lips  as  he  watched  a  water  vole  run  to  and  fro  upon 


246         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

a  little  headland  across  the  stream.  The  vole  plopped 
into  the  water  and  swam  and  dived  and  only  when  the  last 
ring  of  its  disturbance  had  vanished  did  Mr.  Polly  re- 
sume his  thoughtful  course  to  nowhere  in  particular. 

For  the  first  time  in  many  years  he  had  been  leading 
a  healthy  human  life,  living  constantly  in  the  open  air, 
walking  every  day  for  eight  or  nine  hours,  eating  spar- 
ingly^ accepting  every  conversational  opportunity,  not 
even  disdaining  the  discussion  of  possible  work.  And 
beyond  mending  a  hole  in  his  coat  that  he  had  made 
while  negotiating  barbed  wire,  with  a  borrowed  needle 
and  thread  in  a  lodging  house,  he  had  done  no  work  at 
all.  Neither  had  he  worried  about  business  nor  about 
time  and  seasons.  And  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
had  seen  the  Aurora  Borealis. 

So  far  the  holiday  had  cost  him  very  little.  He  had 
arranged  it  on  a  plan  that  was  entirely  his  own.  He  had 
started  with  four  five-pound  notes  and  a  pound  divided 
into  silver,  and  he  had  gone  by  train  from  Fishbourne  to 
Ashington.  At  Ashington  he  had  gone  to  the  post- 
office,  obtained  a  registered  letter,  and  sent  his  four  five- 
pound  notes  with  a  short  brotherly  note  addressed  to 
himself  at  Gilhampton  Post-office.  He  sent  this  letter 
to  Gilhampton  for  no  other  reason  in  the  world  than  that 
he  liked  the  name  of  Gilhampton  and  the  rural  sugges- 
tion of  its  containing  county,  which  was  Sussex,  and 
having  so  despatched  it,  he  set  himself  to  discover,  mark 
down  and  walk  to  Gilhampton,  and  so  recover  his  re- 
sources. And  having  got  to  Gilhampton  at  last,  he 


THE   POTWELL   INN  247 

changed  his  five-pound  note,  bought  four  pound  postal 
orders,  and  repeated  his  manoeuvre  with  nineteen  pounds. 

After  a  lapse  of  fifteen  years  he  rediscovered  this  in- 
teresting world,  about  which  so  many  people  go  incredi- 
bly blind  and  bored.  He  went  along  country  roads 
while  all  the  birds  were  piping  and  chirruping  and  cheep- 
ing and  singing,  and  looked  at  fresh  new  things,  and 
felt  as  happy  and  irresponsible  as  a  boy  with  an  unex- 
pected half -holiday.  And  if  ever  the  thought  of  Miriam 
returned  to  him  he  controlled  his  mind.  He  came  to 
country  inns  and  sat  for  unmeasured  hours  talking  of 
this  and  that  to  those  sage  carters  who  rest  for  ever  in 
the  taps  of  country  inns,  while  the  big  sleek  brass  jingling 
horses  wait  patiently  outside  with  their  waggons ;  he 
got  a  job  with  some  van  people  who  wrere  wandering 
about  the  country  with  swings  and  a  steam  roundabout 
and  remained  with  them  for  three  days,  until  one  of  their 
dogs  took  a  violent  dislike  to  him  and  made  his  duties 
unpleasant;  he  talked  to  tramps  and  wayside  labourers, 
he  snoozed  under  hedges  by  day  and  in  outhouses  and 
hayricks  at  night,  and  once,  but  only  once,  he  slept 
in  a  casual  ward.  He  felt  as  the  etiolated  grass  and 
daisies  must  do  when  you  move  the  garden  roller  away 
to  a  new  place. 

He  gathered  a  quantity  of  strange  and  interesting 
memories. 

He  crossed  some  misty  meadows  by  moonlight  and  the 
mist  lay  low  on  the  grass,  so  low  that  it  scarcely  reached 
above  his  waist,  and  houses  and  clumps  of  trees  stood 


248         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.  POLLY 

out  like  islands  in  a  milky  sea,  so  sharply  defined  was  the 
upper  surface  of  the  mistbank.  He  came  nearer  and 
nearer  to  a  strange  thing  that  floated  like  a  boat  upon 
this  magic  lake,  and  behold!  something  moved  at  the 
stern  and  a  rope  was  whisked  at  the  prow,  and  it  had 
changed  into  a  pensive  cow,  drowsy-eyed,  regarding 
him. 

He  saw  a  remarkable  sunset  in  a  new  valley  near 
Maidstone,  a  very  red  and  clear  sunset,  a  wide  redness 
under  a  pale  cloudless  heaven,  and  with  the  hills  all 
round  the  edge  of  the  sky  a  deep  purple  blue  and  clear 
and  fiat,  looking  exactly  as  he  had  seen  mountains 
painted  in  pictures.  He  seemed  transported  to  some 
strange  country,  and  would  have  felt  no  surprise  if  the 
old  labourer  he  came  upon  leaning  silently  over  a  gate 
had  addressed  him  in  an  unfamiliar  tongue.  .  .  . 

Then  one  night,  just  towards  dawn,  his  sleep  upon  a 
pile  of  brushwood  was  broken  by  the  distant  rattle  of  a 
racing  motor  car  breaking  all  the  speed  regulations,  and 
as  he  could  not  sleep  again,  he  got  up  and  walked  into 
Maidstone  as  the  day  came.  He  had  never  been  abroad 
in  a  town  at  half-past  two  in  his  life  before,  and  the 
stillness  of  everything  in  the  bright  sunrise  impressed 
him  profoundly.  At  one  corner  was  a  startling  police- 
man, standing  in  a  doorway  quite  motionless,  like  a 
-waxen  image.  Mr.  Polly  wished  him  "  good  morning  " 
unanswered,  and  went  down  to  the  bridge  over  the 
Medway  and  sat  on  the  parapet  very  still  and  thought- 
ful, watching  the  town  awaken,  and  wondering  what  he 


THE   POT  WELL   INN  249 

should  do  if  it  didn't,  if  the  world  of  men  never  woke 
again.  .  .  . 

One  day  he  found  himself  going  along  a  road,  with  a 
wide  space  of  sprouting  bracken  and  occasional  trees  on 
either  side,  and  suddenly  this  road  became  strangely, 
perplexingly  familiar.  "  Lord ! "  he  said,  and  turned 
about  and  stood.  "  It  can't  be." 

He  was  incredulous,  then  left  the  road  and  walked 
along  a  scarcely  perceptible  track  to  the  left,  and  came  in 
half  a  minute  to  an  old  lichenous  stone  wall.  It  seemed 
exactly  the  bit  of  wall  he  had  known  so  well.  It  might 
have  been  but  yesterday  he  was  in  that  place;  there 
remained  even  a  little  pile  of  wood.  It  became  absurdly 
the  same  wood.  The  bracken  perhaps  was  not  so  high, 
and  most  of  its  fronds  still  uncoiled ;  that  was  all.  Here 
he  had  stood,  it  seemed,  and  there  she  had  sat  and 
looked  down  upon  him.  Where  was  she  now,  and  what 
had  become  of  her?  He  counted  the  years  back  and 
marvelled  that  beauty  should  have  called  to  him  with 
so  imperious  a  voice — and  signified  nothing. 

He  hoisted  himself  with  some  little  difficulty  to  the 
top  of  the  wall,  and  saw  off  under  the  beech  trees  two 
schoolgirls — small,  insignificant,  pig-tailed  creatures, 
with  heads  of  blond  and  black,  with  their  arms  twined 
about  each  other's  necks,  no  doubt  telling  each  other 
the  silliest  secrets. 

But  that  girl  with  the  red  hair — was  she  a  countess? 
was  she  a  queen?  Children  perhaps?  Had  sorrow 
dared  to  touch  her? 


250         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

Had  she  forgotten  altogether?     .     .     . 

A  tramp  sat  by  the  roadside  thinking,  and  it  seemed 
to  the  man  in  the  passing  motor  car  he  must  needs  be 
plotting  for  another  pot  of  beer.  But  as  a  matter  of 
fact  what  the  tramp  was  saying  to  himself  over  and  over 
again  was  a  variant  upon  a  well-known  Hebrew  word. 

"  Itchabod,"  the  tramp  was  saying  in  the  voice  of  one 
who  reasons  on  the  side  of  the  inevitable.  "  It's  Fair 
Itchabod,  O'  Man.  There's  no  going  back  to  it." 

Ill 

It  was  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  one  hot 
day  in  high  May  when  Mr.  Polly,  unhurrying  and 
serene,  came  to  that  broad  bend  of  the  river  to  which  the 
little  lawn  and  garden  of  the  Potwell  Inn  run  down. 
He  stopped  at  the  sight  of  the  place  with  its  deep  tiled 
roof,  nestling  under  big  trees — you  never  get  a  decently 
big,  decently  shaped  tree  by  the  seaside — its  sign  to- 
wards the  roadway,  its  sun-blistered  green  bench  and 
tables,  its  shapely  white  windows  and  its  row  of  unshoot- 
ing  hollyhock  plants  in  the  garden.  A  hedge  separated  it 
from  a  buttercup-yellow  meadow,  .and  beyond  stood 
three  poplars  in  a  group  against  the  sky,  three  excep- 
tionally tall,  graceful  and  harmonious  poplars.  It  is 
hard  to  say  what  there  was  about  them  that  made  them 
so  beautiful  to  Mr.  Polly;  but  they  seemed  to  him  to 
touch  a  pleasant  scene  to  a  distinction  almost  divine.  He 


THE   POT  WELL  INN  251 

remained  admiring  them  for  a  long  time.  At  last  the 
need  for  coarser  aesthetic  satisfactions  arose  in  his. 

"  Provinder,"  he  whispered,  drawing  near  to  the  Inn. 
"  Cold  sirlion  for  choice.  And  nut-brown  brew  and 
wheaten  bread." 

The  nearer  he  came  to  the  place  the  more  he  liked  it. 
The  windows  on  the  ground  floor  were  long  and  low, 
and  they  had  pleasing  red  blinds.  The  green  tables 
outside  were  agreeably  ringed  with  memories  of  former 
drinks,  and  an  extensive  grape  vine  spread  level  branches 
across  the  whole  front  of  the  place.  Against  the  wall 
was  a  broken  oar,  two  boat-hooks  and  the  stained  and 
faded  red  cushions  of  a  pleasure  boat.  One  went  up 
three  steps  to  the  glass-panelled  door  and  peeped  into 
a  broad,  low  room  with  a  bar  and  beer  engine,  behind 
which  were  many  bright  and  helpful  looking  bottles 
against  mirrors,  and  great  and  little  pewter  measures, 
and  bottles  fastened  in  brass  wire  upside  down  with  their 
corks  replaced  by  taps,  and  a  white  china  cask  labelled 
"  Shrub,"  and  cigar  boxes  and  boxes  of  cigarettes,  and 
a  couple  of  Toby  jugs  and  a  beautifully  coloured  hunting 
scene  framed  and  glazed,  showing  the  most  elegant  and 
beautiful  people  taking  Piper's  Cherry  Brandy,  and  cards 
such  as  the  law  requires  about  the  dilution  of  spirits  and 
the  illegality  of  bringing  children  into  bars,  and  satirical 
verses  about  swearing  and  asking  for  credit,  and  three 
very  bright  red-cheeked  wax  apples  and  a  round-shaped 
clock. 


252         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

But  these  were  the  mere  background  to  the  really 
pleasant  thing  in  the  spectacle,  which  was  quite  the 
plumpest  woman  Mr.  Polly  had  ever  seen,  seated  in  an 
armchair  in  the  midst  of  all  these  bottles  and  glasses 
and  glittering  things,  peacefully  and  tranquilly,  and  with- 
out the  slightest  loss  of  dignity,  asleep.  Many  people 
would  have  called  her  a  fat  woman,  but  Mr.  Polly's  in- 
nate sense  of  epithet  told  him  from  the  outset  that  plump 
was  the  word.  She  had  shapely  brows  and  a  straight, 
well-shaped  nose,  kind  lines  and  contentment  about 
her  mouth,  and  beneath  it  the  jolly  chins  clustered  like 
chubby  little  cherubim  about  the  feet  of  an  Assumption- 
ing-Madonna.  Her  plumpness  was  firm  and  pink  and 
wholesome,  and  her  hands,  dimpled  at  every  joint,  were 
clasped  in  front  of  her;  she  seemed  as  it  were  to  embrace 
herself  with  infinite  confidence  and  kindliness  as  one 
who  knew  herself  good  in  substance,  good  in  essence, 
and  would  show  her  gratitude  to  God  by  that  ready  ac- 
ceptance of  all  that  he  had  given  her.  Her  head  was  a 
little  on  one  side,  not  much,  but  just  enough  to  speak  of 
trustfulness,  and  rob  her  of  the  stiff  effect  of  self-reli- 
ance. And  she  slept. 

"  My  sort,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  opened  the  door  very 
softly,  divided  between  the  desire  to  enter  and  come 
nearer  and  an  instinctive  indisposition  to  break  slumbers 
so  manifestly  sweet  and  satisfying. 

She  awoke  with  a  start,  and  it  amazed  Mr.  Polly  to 
see  swift  terror  flash  into  her  eyes.  Instantly  it  had 
gone  again. 


THE   POT  WELL  INN  253 

"  Law ! "  she  said,  her  face  softening  with  relief,  "  I 
thought  you  were  Jim." 

"  I'm  never  Jim,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  You've  got  his  sort  of  hat." 

"  Ah ! "  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  leant  over  the  bar. 

"  It  just  came  into  my  head  you  was  Jim,"  said  the 
plump  lady,  dismissed  the  topic  and  stood  up.  "  I  be- 
lieve I  was  having  forty  winks,"  she  said,  "  if  all  the 
truth  was  told.  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"Cold  meat?"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  There  is  cold  meat,"  the  plump  woman  admitted. 

"And  room  for  it." 

The  plump  woman  came  and  leant  over  the  bar  and 
regarded  him  judicially,  but  kindly.  "  There's  some  cold 
boiled  beef,"  she  said,  and  added :  "  A  bit  of  crisp  let- 
tuce?" 

"  New  mustard,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"And  a  tankard!" 

"  A  tankard." 

They  understood  each  other  perfectly. 

"  Looking  for  work  ?  "  asked  the  plump  woman. 

"  In  a  way,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

They  smiled  like  old  friends. 

Whatever  the  truth  may  be  about  love,  there  is  cer- 
tainly such  a  thing  as  friendship  at  first  sight.  They 
liked  each  other's  voices,  they  liked  each  other's  way  of 
smiling  and  speaking. 

"  It's  such  beautiful  weather  this  spring,"  said  Mr. 
Polly,  explaining  everything. 


254         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

"  What  sort  of  work  do  you  want  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I've  never  properly  thought  that  out,"  said  Mr. 
Polly.  "  I've  been .  looking  round — for  Ideas." 

"  Will  you  have  your  beef  in  the  tap  or  outside  ? 
That's  the  tap." 

Mr.  Polly  had  a  glimpse  of  an  oaken  settle.  "  In  the 
tap  will  be  handier  for  you,"  he  said. 

"  Hear  that  ?  "  said  the  plump  lady. 

"Hear  what?" 

"  Listen." 

Presently  the  silence  was  broken  by  a  distant  howl. 
"  Oooooo-ver !  "  "  Eh  ?  "  she  said. 

He  nodded. 

"  That's  the  ferry.    And  there  isn't  a  ferryman." 

"Could  I?" 

"  Can  you  punt  ?  " 

"  Never  tried." 

"  Well — pull  the  pole  out  before  you  reach  the  end  of 
the  punt,  that's  all.  Try." 

Mr.  Polly  went  out  again  into  the  sunshine. 

At  times  one  can  tell  so  much  so  briefly.  Here  are 
the  facts  then — bare.  He  found  a  punt  and  a  pole,  got 
across  to  the  steps  on  the  opposite  side,  picked  up  an 
elderly  gentleman  in  an  alpaca  jacket  and  a  pith  helmet, 
cruised  with  him  vaguely  for  twenty  minutes,  conveyed 
him  tortuously  into  the  midst  of  a  thicket  of  forget- 
me-not  spangled  sedges,  splashed  some  water-weed  over 
him,  hit  him  twice  with  the  punt  pole,  and  finally  landed 
him,  alarmed  but  abusive,  in  treacherous  soil  at  the  edge 


THE   POT  WELL   INN  255 

of  a  hay  meadow  about  forty  yards  down  stream,  where 
he  immediately  got  into  difficulties  with  a  noisy,  aggres- 
sive little  white  dog,  which  was  guardian  of  a  jacket. 

Mr.  Polly  returned  in  a  complicated  manner  to  his 
moorings. 

He  found  the  plump  woman  rather  flushed  and  tearful, 
and  seated  at  one  of  the  green  tables  outside. 

"  I  been  laughing  at  you,"  she  said. 

"What  for?"  asked  Mr.  Polly. 

"  I  ain't  'ad  such  a  laugh  since  Jim  come  'ome. 
When  you  'it  'is  'eel,  it  'urt  my  side." 

"  It  didn't  hurt  his  head — not  particularly." 

She  waved  her  head.  "  Did  you  charge  him  any- 
thing?" 

"  Gratis,"  said  Mr.  Polly.     "  I  never  thought  of  it." 

The  plump  woman  pressed  her  hands  to  her  sides  and 
laughed  silently  for  a  space.  "  You  ought  to  have 
charged  him  sumpthing,"  she  said.  "  You  better  come 
and  have  your  cold  meat,  before  you  do  any  more  puntin'. 
You  and  me'll  get  on  together." 

Presently  she  came  and  stood  watching  him  eat. 
"  You  eat  better  than  you  punt,"  she  said,  and  then,  "  I 
dessay  you  could  learn  to  punt." 

"  Wax  to  receive  and  marble  to  retain,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 
"  This  beef  is  a  Bit  of  All  Right,  Ma'm.  I  could  have 
done  differently  if  I  hadn't  been  punting  on  an  empty 
stomach.  There's  a  lear  feeling  as  the  pole  goes  in " 

"  I've  never  held  with  fasting,"  said  the  plump  woman. 

"  You  want  a  ferryman  ?  " 


256         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY. 

"  I  want  an  odd  man  about  the  place." 

"  I'm  odd,  all  right.    What's  your  wages  ?  " 

"  Not  much,  but  you  get  tips  and  pickings.  I've  a 
sort  of  feeling  it  would  suit  you." 

"  I've  a  sort  of  feeling  it  would.  What's  the  duties  ? 
Fetch  and  carry?  Ferry?  Garden?  Wash  bottles? 
Ceteris  paribus?" 

"  That's  about  it,"  said  the  fat  woman. 

"  Give  me  a  trial." 

"  I've  more  than  half  a  mind.  Or  I  wouldn't  have 
said  anything  about  it.  I  suppose  you're  all  right. 
You've  got  a  sort  of  half-respectable  look  about  you. 
I  suppose  you  'aven't  done  anything." 

"  Bit  of  Arson,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  as  if  he  jested. 

"  So  long  as  you  haven't  the  habit,"  said  the  plump 
woman. 

"  My  first  time,  M'am,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  munching  his 
way  through  an  excellent  big  leaf  of  lettuce.  "  And 
my  last." 

"  It's  all  right  if  you  haven't  been  to  prison,"  said  the 
plump  woman.  "  It  isn't  what  a  man's  happened  to  do 
makes  'im  bad.  We  all  happen  to  do  things  at  times. 
It's  bringing  it  home  to  him,  and  spoiling  his  self-respect 
does  the  mischief.  You  don't  look  a  wrong  'un.  'Ave 
you  been  to  prison?" 

"  Never." 

"  Nor  a  reformatory  ?    Nor  any  institution  ?  " 

"Not  me.     Do  I  look  reformed?" 

"  Can  you  paint  and  carpenter  a  bit  ?  " 


THE  POT  WELL  INN  257 

"  Well,  I'm  ripe  for  it." 

"Have  a  bit  of  cheese?" 

"  If  I  might" 

And  the  way  she  brought  the  cheese  showed  Mr.  Polly 
that  the  business  was  settled  in  her  mind. 

He  spent  the  afternoon  exploring  the  premises  of  the 
Potwell  Inn  and  learning  the  duties  that  might  be  ex- 
pected of  him,  such  as  Stockholm  tarring  fences,  digging 
potatoes,  swabbing  out  boats,  helping  people  land,  em- 
barking, landing  and  time-keeping  for  the  hirers  of  two 
rowing  boats  and  one  Canadian  canoe,  baling  out  the 
said  vessels  and  concealing  their  leaks  and  defects  from 
prospective  hirers,  persuading  inexperienced  hirers  to 
start  down  stream  rather  than  up,  repairing  rowlocks 
and  taking  inventories  of  returning  boats  with  a  view  to 
supplementary  charges,  cleaning  boots,  sweeping  chim- 
neys, house-painting,  cleaning  windows,  sweeping  out 
and  sanding  the  tap  and  bar,  cleaning  pewter,  washing 
glasses,  turpentining  woodwork,  whitewashing  generally, 
plumbing  and  engineering,  repairing  locks  and  clocks, 
waiting  and  tapster's  work  generally,  beating  carpets  and 
mats,  cleaning  bottles  and  saving  corks,  taking  into  the 
cellar,  moving,  tapping  and  connecting  beer  casks  with 
their  engines,  blocking  and  destroying  wasps'  nests,  doing 
forestry  with  several  trees,  drowning  superfluous  kittens, 
and  dog-fancying  as  required,  assisting  in  the  rearing  of 
ducklings  and  the  care  of  various  poultry,  bee-keeping, 
stabling,  baiting  and  grooming  horses  and  asses,  cleaning 
and  "  garing "  motor  cars  and  bicycles,  inflating  tires 


258         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

and  repairing  punctures,  recovering  the  bodies  of 
drowned  persons  from  the  river  as  required,  and  assisting 
people  in  trouble  in  the  water,  first-aid  and  sympathy, 
improvising  and  superintending  a  bathing  station  for 
visitors,  attending  inquests  and  funerals  in  the  interests 
of  the  establishment,  scrubbing  floors  and  all  the  ordinary 
duties  of  a  scullion,  the  ferry,  chasing  hens  and  goats 
from  the  adjacent  cottages  out  of  the  garden,  making  up 
paths  and  superintending  drainage,  gardening  generally, 
delivering  bottled  beer  and  soda  water  syphons  in  the 
neighbourhood,  running  miscellaneous  errands,  removing 
drunken  and  offensive  persons  from  the  premises  by  tact 
or  muscle  as  occasion  required,  keeping  in  with  the  local 
policemen,  defending  the  premises  in  general  and  the 
orchard  in  particular  from  depredators.  .  .  . 

"  Can  but  try  it,"  said  Mr.  Polly  towards  tea  time. 
"  When  there's  nothing  else  on  hand  I  suppose  I  might 
do  a  bit  of  fishing." 

Ill 

Mr.  Polly  was  particularly  charmed  by  the  ducklings. 

They  were  piping  about  among  the  vegetables  in  the 
company  of  their  foster  mother,  and  as  he  and  the 
plump  woman  came  down  the  garden  path  the  little 
creatures  mobbed  them,  and  ran  over  their  boots  and  in 
between  Mr.  Polly's  legs,  and  did  their  best  to  be  trod- 
den upon  and  killed  after  the  manner  of  ducklings  all 
the  world  over.  Mr.  Polly  had  never  been  near  young 
ducklings  before,  and  their  extreme  blondness  and  the 


THE   POT  WELL   INN  259 

delicate  completeness  of  their  feet  and  beaks  filled  him 
with  admiration.  It  is  open  to  question  whether  there 
is  anything  more  friendly  in  the  world  than  a  very  young 
duckling.  It  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  he  tore 
himself  away  to  practise  punting,  with  the  plump  woman 
coaching  from  the  bank.  Punting  he  found  was  diffi- 
cult, but  not  impossible,  and  towards  four  o'clock  he 
succeeded  in  conveying  a  second  passenger  across  the 
sundering  flood  from  the  inn  to  the  unknown. 

As  he  returned,  slowly  indeed,  but  now  one  might 
almost  say  surely,  to  the  peg  to  which  the  punt  was 
moored,  he  became  aware  of  a  singularly  delightful 
human  being  awaiting  him  on  the  bank.  She  stood  with 
her  legs  very  wide  apart,  her  hands  behind  her  back, 
and  her  head  a  little  on  one  side,  watching  his  gestures 
writh  an  expression  of  disdainful  interest.  She  had 
black  hair  and  brown  legs  and  a  buff  short  frock  and 
very  intelligent  eyes.  And  when  he  had  reached  a 
sufficient  proximity  she  remarked :  "  Hello !  " 

"  Hello,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  saved  himself  in  the 
nick  of  time  from  disaster. 

"  Silly,"  said  the  young  lady,  and  Mr.  Polly  lunged 
nearer. 

"  What  are  you  called  ?  " 

"  Polly." 

"Liar!" 

"Why?" 

"I'm  Polly." 

"  Then  I'm  Alfred.     But  I  meant  to  be  Polly." 


260         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY. 

"  I  was  first." 

"All  right.     I'm  going  to  be  the  ferryman." 

"  I  see.     You'll  have  to  punt  better." 

"  You  should  have  seen  me  early  in  the  afternoon." 

"  I  can  imagine  it.     ...     I've  seen  the  others." 

"  What  others  ?  "  Mr.  Polly  had  landed  now  and  was 
fastening  up  the  punt. 

"  What  Uncle  Jim  has  scooted." 

"Scooted?" 

"  He  comes  and  scoots  them.  He'll  scoot  you  too,  I 
expect." 

A  mysterious  shadow  seemed  to  fall  athwart  the  sun- 
shine and  pleasantness  of  the  Potwell  Inn. 

"  I'm  not  a  scooter,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Uncle  Jim  is." 

She  whistled  a  little  flatly  for  a  moment,  and  threw 
small  stones  at  a  clump  of  meadow-sweet  that  sprang 
from  the  bank.  Then  she  remarked : 

"  When  Uncle  Jim  comes  back  he'll  cut  your  in  sides 
out.  .  .  .  P'raps,  very  likely,  he'll  let  me  see." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Who's  Uncle  Jim?"  Mr.  Polly  asked  in  a  faded 
voice. 

"  Don't  you  know  who  Uncle  Jim  is?  He'll  show  you. 
He's  a  scorcher,  is  Uncle  Jim.  He  only  came  back  just 
a  little  time  ago,  and  he's  scooted  three  men.  He  don't 
like  strangers  about,  don't  Uncle  Jim.  He  can  swear. 
He's  going  to  teach  me,  soon  as  I  can  whissle  properly." 

"  Teach  you  to  swear ! "  cried  Mr.  Polly,  horrified. 


THE  POTWELL  INN  261 

"And  spit,"  said  the  little  girl  proudly.  "He  says 
I'm  the  gamest  little  beast  he  ever  came  across — ever." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  it  seemed  to  Mr.  Polly 
that  he  had  come  across  something  sheerly  dreadful.  He 
stared  at  the  pretty  thing  of  flesh  and  spirit  in  front  of 
him,  lightly  balanced  on  its  stout  little  legs  and  looking 
at  him  with  eyes  that  had  still  to  learn  the  expression  of 
either  disgust  or  fear. 

"I  say,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  "how  old  are  you?" 

"  Nine,"  said  the  little  girl. 

She  turned  away  and  reflected.  Truth  compelled  her 
to  add  one  other  statement. 

"  He's  not  what  I  should  call  handsome,  not  Uncle 
Jim,"  she  said.  "  But  he's  a  scorcher  and  no  mistake. 
.  .  .  Gramma  don't  like  him." 

IV 

Mr.  Polly  found  the  plump  woman  in  the  big  bricked 
kitchen  lighting  a  fire  for  tea.  He  went  to  the  root  of 
the  matter  at  once. 

"I  say,"  he  asked,  "who's  Uncle  Jim?" 

The  plump  woman  blanched  and  stood  still  for  a 
moment.  A  stick  fell  out  of  the  bundle  in  her  hand  un- 
heeded. 

"  That  little  granddaughter  of  mine  been  saying 
things?"  she  asked  faintly. 

"  Bits  of  things,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  must  tell  you  sooner  or  later. 


• 
262         THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

He's -.  It's  Jim.  He's  the  Drorback  to  this  place, 

that's  what  he  is.  The  Drorback.  I  hoped  you  mightn't 
hear  so  soon.  .  .  .  Very  likely  he's  gone." 

"She  don't  seem  to  think  so." 

"  'E  'asn't  been  near  the  place  these  two  weeks  and 
more,"  said  the  plump  woman. 

"But  who  is  he?" 

"  I  ,  suppose  I  got  to  tell  you,"  said  the  plump 
woman. 

"  She  says  he  scoots  people,"  Mr.  Polly  remarked  after 
a  pause. 

"  He's  my  own  sister's  son."  The  plump  woman 
watched  the  crackling  fire  for  a  space.  "  I  suppose  I 
got  to  tell  you,"  she  repeated. 

She  softened  towards  tears.  "  I  try  not  to  think  of 
it,  and  night  and  day  he's  haunting  me.  I  try  not  to 
think  of  it.  T've  been  for  easy-going  all  my  life.  But 
I'm  that  worried  and  afraid,  with  de.ath  and  ruin  threat- 
ened and  evil  all  about  me!  I  don't  know  what  to  do! 
My  own  sister's  son,  and  me  a  widow  woman  and 
'elpless  against  his  doin's!" 

She  put  down  the  sticks  she  held  upon  the  fender,  and 
felt  for  her  handkerchief.  She  began  to  sob  and  talk 
quickly. 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  nothing  else  half  so  much  if  he'd 
leave  that  child  alone.  But  he  goes  talking  to  her — if 
I  leave  her  a  moment  he's  talking  to  her,  teaching  her 
words  and  giving  her  ideas ! " 

"  That's  a  Bit  Thick,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 


THE   POTWELL   INN  263 

"  Thick !  "  cried  the  plump  woman ;  "  it's  'orrible ! 
And  what  am  I  to  do?  He's  been  here  three  times 
now,  six  days  and  a  week  and  a  part  of  a  week,  and  I 
pray  to  God  night  and  day  he  may  never  come  again. 
Praying!  Back  he's  come  sure  as  fate.  He  takes  my 
money  and  he  takes  my  things.  He  won't  let  no  man 
stay  here  to  protect  me  or  do  the  boats  or  work  the 
ferry.  The  ferry's  getting  a  scandal.  They  stand  and 
shout  and  scream  and  use  language.  ...  If  I  com- 
plain they'll  say  I'm  helpless  to  manage  here,  they'll  take 
away  my  license,  out  I  shall  go — and  it's  all  the  living 
I  can  get — and  he  knows  it,  and  he  plays  on  it,  and  he 
don't  care.  And  here  I  am.  I'd  send  the  child  away, 
but  I  got  nowhere  to  send  the  child.  I  buys  him  off  when 
it  comes  to  that,  and  back  he  comes,  worse  than  ever, 
prowling  round  and  doing  evil.  And  not  a  soul  to  help 
me.  Not  a  soul !  I  just  hoped  there  might  be  a  day 
or  so.  Before  he  comes  back  again.  I  was  just  hop- 
ing   I'm  the  sort  that  hopes." 

Air.  Polly  was  reflecting  on  the  flaws  and  drawbacks 
that  seem  to  be  inseparable  from  all  the  more  agreeable 
things  in  life. 

"Biggish  sort  of  man,  I  expect?"  asked  Mr.  Polly, 
trying  to  get  the  situation  in  all  its  bearings. 

But  the  plump  woman  did  not  heed  him.  She  was 
going  on  with  her  fire-making,  and  retailing  in  discon- 
nected fragments  the  fearfulness  of  Uncle  Jim. 

"  There  was  always  something  a  bit  wrong  with  him," 
she  said,  "  but  nothing  you  mightn't  have  hoped  for,  not 


264         THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

till  they  took  him  and  carried  him  off  and  reformed 
him.     .     .    . 

"  He  was  cruel  to  the  hens  and  chickings,  it's  true, 
and  stuck  a  knife  into  another  boy,  but  then  I've  seen 
him  that  nice  to  a  cat,  nobody  could  have  been  kinder. 
I'm  sure  he  didn't  do  no  'arm  to  that  cat  whatever  any- 
one tries  to  make  out  of  it.  I'd  never  listen  to  that. 
.  .  .  It  was  that  reformatory  ruined  him.  They  put 
him  along  of  a  lot  of  London  boys  full  of  ideas  of  wicked- 
ness, and  because  he  didn't  mind  pain — and  he  don't,  I 
will  admit,  try  as  I  would — they  made  him  think  himself 
a  hero.  Them  boys  laughed  at  the  teachers  they  set  over 
them,  laughed  and  mocked  at  them— and  I  don't  sup- 
pose they  was  the  best  teachers  in  the  world;  I  don't 
suppose,  and  I  don't  suppose  anyone  sensible  does  sup- 
pose that  everyone  who  goes  to  be  a  teacher  or  a  chap- 
Tin  or  a  warder  in  a  Reformatory  Home  goes  and 
changes  right  away  into  an  Angel  of  Grace  from  Heaven 
— and  Oh,  Lord !  where  was  I  ?  " 

"What  did  they  send  him  to  the  Reformatory  for?" 
"  Playing  truant  and  stealing.  He  stole  right  enough 
— stole  the  money  from  an  old  woman,  and  what  was 
I  to  do  when  it  came  to  the  trial  but  say  what  I  knew. 
And  him  like  ».  viper  a-looking  at  me — more  like  a  viper 
than  a  human  boy.  He  leans  on  the  bar  and  looks  at 
me.  '  All  right,  Aunt  Flo,'  he  says,  just  that  and  nothing 
more.  Thne  after  time,  I've  dreamt  of  it,  and  now  he's 
come.  'They've  Reformed  me,'  he  says,  *  and  made  me 


THE   POT  WELL   INN  265 

a  devil,  and  devil  I  mean  to  be  to  you.  So  out  with  it,' 
he  says." 

"What  did  you  give  him  last  time?"  asked  Mr. 
Polly. 

"  Three  golden  pounds,"  said  the  plump  woman. 
"  '  That  won't  last  very  long,'  he  says.  '  But  there  ain't 
no  hurry.  I'll  be  back  in  a  week  about.'  If  I  wasn't 
one  of  the  hoping  sort " 

She  left  the  sentence  unfinished. 

Mr.  Polly  reflected.  "What  sort  of  a  size  is  he?" 
he  asked.  "  I'm  not  one  of  your  Herculaceous  sort,  if 
you  mean  that.  Nothing  very  wonderful  bicepitally." 

"  You'll  scoot,"  said  the  plump  woman  with  convic- 
tion rather  than  bitterness.  "  You'd  better  scoot  now, 
and  I'll  try  and  find  some  money  for  him  to  go  away 
again  when  he  comes.  It  ain't  reasonable  to  expect  you 
to  do  anything  but  scoot.  But  I  suppose  it's  the  way 
of  a  woman  in  trouble  to  try  and  get  help  from  a 
man,  and  hope  and  hope.  I'm  the  hoping  sort." 

"  How  long's  he  been  about  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Polly,  ignor- 
ing his  own  outlook. 

"  Three  months  it  is  come  the  seventh  since  he  come 
in  by  that  very  back  door — and  I  hadn't  set  eyes  on  him 
for  seven  long  years.  He  stood  in  the  door  watchin' 
me,  and  suddenly  he  let  off  a  yelp — like  a  dog,  and  there 
he  was  grinning  at  the  fright  he'd  given  me.  '  Good 
old  Aunty  Flo/  he  says,  'ain't  you  dee-lighted  to  see 
me  ? '  he  says,  '  now  I'm  Reformed.'  " 


266         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

The  plump  lady  went  to  the  sink  and  filled  the  kettle. 

"  I  never  did  like  'im,"  she  said,  standing  at  the  sink. 
"  And  seeing  him  there,  with  his  teeth  all  black  and 
broken .  P'raps  I  didn't  give  him  much  of  a  wel- 
come at  first.  Not  what  would  have  been  kind  to  him. 
'Lord!'  I  said,  'it's  Jim.'" 

"  '  It's  Jim/  he  said.  '  Like  a  bad  shiliin'— like  a 
damned  bad  shilling.  Jim  and  trouble.  You  all  of 
you  wanted  me  Reformed  and  now  you  got  me  Re- 
formed. I'm  a  Reformatory  Reformed  Character,  war- 
ranted all  right  and  turned  out  as  such.  Ain't  you 
going  to  ask  me  in,  Aunty  dear  ? ' 

" '  Come  in/  I  said,  '  I  won't  have  it  said  I  wasn't 
ready  to  be  kind  to  you ! ' 

"  He  comes  in  and  shuts  the  door.  Down  he  sits  in 
that  chair.  '  I  come  to  torment  you ! '  he  says,  '  you 
Old  Sumpthing !  '  and  begins  at  me.  .  .  .  No  human 
being  could  ever  have  been  called  such  things  before.  It 
made  me  cry  out.  '  And  now/  he  says,  '  just  to  show  I 
ain't  afraid  of  'urting  you/  he  says,  and  ups  and  twists 
my  wrist." 

Mr.  Polly  gasped. 

"  I  could  stand  even  his  vi'lence,"  said  the  plump 
woman,  "  if  it  wasn't  for  the  child." 

Mr.  Polly  went  to  the  kitchen  window  and  surveyed  his 
namesake,  who  was  away  up  the  garden  path  with  her 
hands  behind  her  back,  and  whisps  of  black  hair  in  dis- 
order about  her  little  face,  thinking,  thinking  profoundly, 
about  ducklings. 


THE   POT  WELL   INN  267 

"  You  two  oughtn't  to  be  left,"  he  said. 

The  plump  woman  stared  at  his  back  with  hard  hope 
in  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  see  that  it's  my  affair,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

The  plump  woman  resumed  her  business  with  the 
kettle. 

"  I'd  like  to  have  a  look  at  him  before  I  go,"  said 
Mr.  Polly,  thinking;  aloud.  And  added,  "  somehow. 
Not  my  business,  of  course." 

"  Lord !  "  he  cried  with  a  start  at  a  noise  in  the  bar, 
"who's  that?" 

"  Only  a  customer,"  said  the  plump  woman. 

V 

Mr.  Polly  made  no  rash  promises,  and  thought  a 
great  deal. 

"  It  seems  a  good  sort  of  Crib,"  he  said,  and  added, 
"  for  a  chap  who's  looking  for  trouble." 

But  he  stayed  on  and  did  various  things  out  of  the 
list  I  have  already  given,  and  worked  the  ferry,  and  it 
was  four  days  before  he  saw  anything  of  Uncle  Jim. 
And  so  resistent  is  the  human  mind  to  things  not  yet 
experienced  that  he  could  easily  have  believed  in  that 
time  that  there  was  no  such  person  in  the  world  as 
Uncle  Jim.  The  plump  woman,  after  her  one  outbreak  of 
confidence,  ignored  the  subject,  and  little  Polly  seemed 
to  have  exhausted  her  impressions  in  her  first  communi- 
cation, and  engaged  her  mind  now  with  a  simple  direct- 


268         THE  HISTORY   OF   MR.   POLLY 

ness  in  the  study  and  subjugation  of  the  new  human  being 
Heaven  had  sent  into  her  world.  The  first  unfavourable 
impression  of  his  punting  was  soon  effaced;  he  could 
nickname  ducklings  very  amusingly,  create  boats  out  of 
wooden  splinters,  and  stalk  and  fly  from  imaginary 
tigers  in  the  orchard  with  a  convincing  earnestness  that 
was  surely  beyond  the  power  of  any  other  human  being. 
She  conceded  at  last  that  he  should  be  called  Mr.  Polly, 
in  honour  of  her,  Miss  Polly,  even  as  he  desired. 

Uncle  Jim  turned  up  in  the  twilight. 

Uncle  Jim  appeared  with  none  of  the  disruptive  vio- 
lence Mr.  Polly  had  dreaded.  He  came  quite  softly. 
Mr.  Polly  was  going  down  the  lane  behind  the  church 
that  led  to  the  Potwell  Inn  after  posting  a  letter  to  the 
lime-juice  people  at  the  post-office.  He  was  walking 
slowly,  after  his  habit,  and  thinking  discursively.  With 
a  sudden  tightening  of  the  muscles  he  became  aware 
of  a  figure  walking  noiselessly  beside  him.  His  first 
impression  was  of  a  face  singularly  broad  above  and 
with  a  wide  empty  grin  as  its  chief  feature  below,  of  a 
slouching  body  and  dragging  feet. 

"  Arf  a  mo',"  said  the  figure,  as  if  in  response  to 
his  start,  and  speaking  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "  Arf 
a  mo',  mister.  You  the  noo  bloke  at  the  Potwell 
Inn?" 

Mr.  Polly  felt  evasive.  "  'Spose  I  am,"  he  replied 
hoarsely,  and  quickened  his  pace. 

"  Arf  a  mo',5'  said  Uncle  Jim,  taking  his  arm.  "  We 
ain't  doing  a  (sanguinary)  Marathon.  It  ain't  a  (deco- 


THE  POTWELL   INN  269 

rated)  cinder  track.  I  want  a  word  with  you,  mister. 
See?" 

Mr.  Polly  wriggled  his  arm  free  and  stopped.  "  What 
is  it?"  he  asked,  and  faced  the  terror. 

"I  jest  want  a  (decorated)  word  wiv  you.  See? — 
just  a  friendly  word  or  two.  Just  to  clear  up  any 
blooming  errors.  That's  all  I  want.  No  need  to  be  so 
(richly  decorated)  proud,  if  you  are  the  noo  bloke  at 
Potwell  Inn.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  See?" 

Uncle  Jim  was  certainly  not  a  handsome  person.  He 
was  short,  shorter  than  Mr.  Polly,  with  long  arms  and 
lean  big  hands,  a  thin  and  wiry  neck  stuck  out  of  his 
grey  flannel  shirt  and  supported  a  big  head  that  had 
something  of  the  snake  in  the  convergent  lines  of  its 
broad  knotty  brow,  meanly  proportioned  face  and  pointed 
chin.  His  almost  toothless  mouth  seemed  a  cavern  in 
the  twilight.  Some  accident  had  left  him  with  one 
small  and  active  and  one  large  and  expressionless  red- 
dish eye,  and  whisps  of  straight  hair  strayed  from  under 
the  blue  cricket  cap  he  wore  pulled  down  obliquely  over 
the  latter.  He  spat  between  his  teeth  and  wiped  his 
mouth  untidily  with  the  soft  side  of  his  fist. 

"You  got  to  blurry  well  shift,"  he  said.     "See?" 

"  Shift !  "  said  Mr.  Polly.     "  How  ?  " 

"  'Cos  the  Potwell  Inn's  my  beat    See?  " 

Mr.  Polly  had  never  felt  less  witty.  "  How's  it  your 
beat  ?  "  he  asked. 

Uncle  Jim  thrust  his  face  forward  and  shook  his  open 
hand,  bent  like  a  claw,  under  Mr.  Polly's  nose.  "Not 


270         THE   HISTORY    OF  MR.   POLLY 

your  blooming  business,"  he  said.  "  You  got  to 
shift." 

"  S'pose  I  don't,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  You  got  to  shift." 

The  tone  of  Uncle  Jim's  voice  became  urgent  and 
confidential. 

"  You  don't  know  who  you're  up  against,"  he  said. 
"It's  a  kindness  I'm  doing  to  warn  you.  See?  I'm 
just  one  of  those  blokes  who  don't  stick  at  things,  see? 
I  don't  stick  at  nuffin'." 

Mr.  Polly's  manner  became  detached  and  confidential 
— as  though  the  matter  and  the  speaker  interested  him 
greatly,  but  didn't  concern  him  overmuch.  "  What  do 
you  think  you'll  do  ? "  he  asked. 

"  If  you  don't  clear  out?  " 

"  Yes." 

" '  Gaw!"  said  Uncle  Jim.    "You'd  better.     'Ere!" 

He  gripped  Mr.  Polly's  wrist  with  a  grip  of  steel,  and 
in  an  instant  Mr.  Polly  understood  the  relative  quality 
of  their  muscles.  He  breathed,  an  uninspiring  breath, 
into  Mr.  Polly's  face. 

"What  won't  I  do?"  he  said.  "Once  I  start  in  on 
you." 

He  paused,  and  the  night  about  them  seemed  to  be 
listening.  "  I'll  make  a  mess  of  you,"  he  said  in  his 
hoarse  whisper.  "  I'll  do  you — injuries.  I'll  'urt  you. 
I'll  kick  you  ugly,  see?  I'll  'urt  you  in  'orrible  ways — • 
'orrible,  ugly  ways.  .  .  ." 

He  scrutinised  Mr.  Polly's  face. 


THE   POTWELL   INN  271 

"You'll  cry,"  he  said,  "to  see  yourself.  See?  Cry 
you  will." 

"  You  got  no  right,"  began  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Right ! "  His  note  was  fierce.  "  Ain't  the  old 
woman  me  aunt  ?  " 

He  spoke  still  closer.  "  I'll  make  a  gory  mess  of 
you.  I'll  cut  bits  orf  you " 

He  receded  a  little.  "  I  got  no  quarrel  with  you" 
he  said. 

"  It's  too  late  to  go  to-night,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  I'll  be  round  to-morrer — 'bout  eleven.  See  ?  And 
if  I  finds  you " 

He  produced  a  blood-curdling  oath. 

"  H'm,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  trying  to  keep  things  light. 
"  We'll  consider  your  suggestions." 

"  You  better,"  said  Uncle  Jim,  and  suddenly,  noise- 
lessly, was  going. 

His  whispering  voice  sank  until  Mr.  Polly  could  hear 
only  the  dim  fragments  of  sentences.  "  'Orrible  things 
to  you  —  'orrible  things.  .  .  .  Kick  yer  ugly. 
.  .  .  Cut  yer — liver  out  .  .  .  spread  it  all  about, 
I  will.  .  .  .  Outing  doos.  See  ?  I  don't  care  a  dead 
rat  one  way  or  the  uvver." 

And  with  a  curious  twisting  gesture  of  the  arm  Uncle 
Jim  receded  until  his  face  was  a  still,  dim  thing  that 
watched,  and  the  black  shadows  of  the  hedge  seemed  to 
have  swallowed  up  his  body  altogether. 


.272         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY. 

1 

Next  morning  about  half-past  ten  Mr.  Polly  found 
himself  seated  under  a  clump  of  fir  trees  by  the  roadside 
and  about  three  miles  and  a  half  from  the  Potwell  Inn. 
He  was  by  no  means  sure  whether  he  was  taking  a  walk 
to  clear  his  mind  or  leaving  that  threat-marred  Paradise 
for  good  and  all.  His  reason  pointed  a  lean,  unhesitat- 
ing finger  along  the  latter  course. 

For  after  all,  the  thing  was  not  his  quarrel. 

That  agreeable  plump  woman,  agreeable,  motherly, 
comfortable  as  she  might  be,  wasn't  his  affair;  that 
child  with  the  mop  of  black  hair  who  combined  so  magic- 
ally the  charm  of  mouse  and  butterfly  and  flitting  bird, 
who  was  daintier  than  a  flower  and  softer  than  a  peach, 
was  no  concern  of  his.  Good  heavens !  what  were  they 
to  him?  Nothing!  .  .  . 

Uncle  Jim,  of  course,  had  a  claim,  a  sort  of  claim. 

If  it  came  to  duty  and  chucking  up  this  attractive,  in- 
dolent, observant,  humorous,  tramping  life,  there  were 
those  who  had  a  right  to  him,  a  legitimate  right,  a  prior 
claim  on  his  protection  and  chivalry. 

Why  not  listen  to  the  call  of  duty  and  go  back  to 
Miriam  now?  .  .  . 

He  had  had  a  very  agreeable  holiday.     .     .     . 

And  while  Mr.  Polly  sat  thinking  these  things  as  well 
as  he  could,  he  knew  that  if  only  he  dared  to  look  up 
the  heavens  had  opened  and  the  clear  judgment  on  his 
case  was  written  across  the  sky. 


THE  POTWELL  INN  273 

He  knew — he  knew  now  as  much  as  a  man  can  know 
of  life.  He  knew  he  had  to  fight  or  perish. 

Life  had  never  been  so  clear  to  him  before.  It  had 
always  been  a  confused,  entertaining  spectacle,  he  had 
responded  to  this  impulse  and  that,  seeking  agreeable 
and  entertaining  things,  evading  difficult  and  painful 
things.  Such  is  the  way  of  those  who  grow  up  to  a 
life  that  has  neither  danger  nor  honour  in  its  texture. 
He  had  been  muddled  and  wrapped  about  and  entangled 
like  a  creature  born  in  the  jungle  who  has  never  seen 
sea  or  sky.  Now  he  had  come  out  of  it  suddenly  into  a 
great  exposed  place.  It  was  as  if  God  and  Heaven 
waited  over  him  and  all  the  earth  was  expectation. 

"  Not  my  business,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  speaking  aloud. 
"  Where  the  devil  do  /  come  in  ?  " 

And  again,  with  something  between  a  whine  and  a 
snarl  in  his  voice,  "  not  my  blasted  business !  " 

His  mind  seemed  to  have  divided  itself  into  several 
compartments,  each  with  its  own  particular  discussion 
busily  in  progress,  and  quite  regardless  of  the  others. 
One  was  busy  with  the  detailed  interpretation  of  the 
phrase  "  Kick  you  ugly."  There's  a  sort  of  French 
wrestling  in  which  you  use  and  guard  against  feet. 
Watch  the  man's  eye,  and  as  his  foot  comes  up,  grip  and 
over  he  goes — at  your  mercy  if  you  use  the  advantage 
right.  But  how  do  you  use  the  advantage  rightly? 

When  he  thought  of  Uncle  Jim  the  inside  feeling  of  his 
body  faded  away  rapidly  to  a  blank  discomfort.  .  .  . 

"  Old  cadger !    She  hadn't  no  business  to  drag  me  into 


274         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

her  quarrels.  Ought  to  go  to  the  police  and  ask  for 
help!  Dragging  me  into  a  quarrel  that  don't  concern 
me." 

"  Wish  I'd  never  set  eyes  on  the  rotten  inn ! " 

The  reality  of  the  case  arched  over  him  like  the  vault 
of  the  sky,  as  plain  as  the  sweet  blue  heavens  above  and 
the.  wide  spread  of  hill  and  valley  about  him.  Man 
comes  into  life  to  seek  and  find  his  sufficient  beauty,  to 
serve  it,  to  win  and  increase  it,  to  fight  for  it,  to  face 
anything  and  dare  anything  for  it,  counting  death  as 
nothing  so  long  as  the  dying  eyes  still  turn  to  it.  And 
fear,  and  dulness  and  indolence  and  appetite,  which  in- 
deed are  no  more  than  fear's  three  crippled  brothers  who 
make  ambushes  and  creep  by  night,  are  against  him, 
to  delay  him,  to  hold  him  off,  to  hamper  and  beguile  and 
kill  him  in  that  quest.  He  had  but  to  lift  his  eyes  to 
see  all  that,  as  much  a  part  of  his  world  as  the  driving 
clouds  and  the  bending  grass,  but  he  kept  himself  down- 
cast, a  grumbling,  inglorious,  dirty,  fattish  little  tramp, 
full  of  dreads  and  quivering  excuses. 

"  Why  the  hell  was  I  ever  born  ?  "  he  said,  with  the 
truth  almost  winning  him. 

What  do  you  do  when  a  dirty  man  who  smells,  gets 
you  down  and  under  in  the  dirt  and  dust  with  a  knee 
below  your  diaphragm  and  a  large  hairy  hand  squeezing 
your  windpipe  tighter  and  tighter  in  a  quarrel  that 
isn't,  properly  speaking,  yours? 

"  If  I  had  a  chance  against  him "  protested  Mr. 

Polly. 


THE  POTWELL  INN  275 

"  It's  no  Good,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

He  stood  up  as  though  his  decision  was  made,  and  was 
for  an  instant  struck  still  by  doubt. 

There  lay  the  road  before  him  going  this  way  to  the 
east  and  that  to  the  west. 

Westward,  one  hour  away  now,  was  the  Potwell  Inn. 
Already  things  might  be  happening  there.  .  .  . 

Eastward  was  the  wise  man's  course,  a  road  dipping 
between  hedges  to  a  hop  garden  and  a  wood  and  pres- 
ently no  doubt  reaching  an  inn,  a  picturesque  church, 
perhaps,  a  village  and  fresh  company.  The  wise  man's 
course.  Mr.  Polly  saw  himself  going  along  it,  and  tried 
to  see  himself  going  along  it  with  all  the  self-applause 
a  wise  man  feels.  But  somehow  it  wouldn't  come  like 
that.  The  wise  man  fell  short  of  happiness  for  all  his 
wisdom.  The  wise  man  had  a  paunch  and  round  shoul- 
ders and  red  ears  and  excuses.  It  was  a  pleasant  road, 
and  why  the  wise  man  should  not  go  along  it  merry  and 
singing,  full  of  summer  happiness,  was  a  miracle  to 
Mr.  Polly's  mind,  but  confound  it !  the  fact  remained, 
the  figure  went  slinking — slinking  was  the  only  word 
'for  it — and  would  not  go  otherwise  than  slinking.  He 
turned  his  eyes  westward  as  if  for  an  explanation,  and 
if  the  figure  was  no  longer  ignoble,  the  prospect  was 
appalling. 

"  One  kick  in  the  stummick  would  settle  a  chap  like 
me,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"Oh,  God!"  cried  Mr.  Polly,  and  lifted  his  eyes  to 


276         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

heaven,  and  said  for  the  last  time  in  that  struggle,  "It 
isn't  my  affair!51 

And  so  saying  he  turned  his  face  towards  the  Potwell 
Inn. 

He  went  back  neither  halting  nor  hastening  in  his 
pace  after  this  last  decision,  but  with  a  mind  feverishly 
busy. 

"  If  I  get  killed,  I  get  killed,  and  if  he  gets  killed  I  get 
hung.  Don't  seem  just  somehow." 

"  Don't  suppose  I  shall  frighten  him  off." 


VII 

The  private  war  between  Mr.  Polly  and  Uncle  Jim 
for  the  possession  of  the  Potwell  Inn  fell  naturally  into 
three  chief  campaigns.  There  was  first  of  all  the  great 
campaign  which  ended  in  the  triumphant  eviction  of 
Uncle  Jim  from  the  inn  premises,  there  came  next  after 
a  brief  interval  the  futile  invasions  of  the  premises  by 
Uncle  Jim  that  culminated  in  the  Battle  of  the  Dead  Eel, 
and  after  some  months  of  involuntary  truce  there  was 
the  last  supreme  conflict  of  the  Night  Surprise.  Each 
of  these  campaigns  merits  a  section  to  itself. 

Mr.  Polly  re-entered  the  inn  discreetly.  He  found 
the  plump  woman  seated  in  her  bar,  her  eyes  a-stare,  her 
face  white  and  wet  with  tears.  "  O  God ! "  she  was 
saying  over  and  over  again.  "  O  God !  "  The  air  was 
full  of  a  spirituous  reek,  and  on  the  sanded  boards  in 


THE  POTWELL  INN  277 

front  of  the  bar  were  the  fragments  of  a  broken  bottle 
and  an  overturned  glass. 

She  turned  her  despair  at  the  sound  of  his  entry,  and 
despair  gave  place  to  astonishment. 

"  You  come  back !  "  she  said. 

"  Ra-ther,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  He's — he's  mad  drunk  and  looking  for  her." 

"Where  is  she?" 

"  Locked  upstairs." 

"  Haven't  you  sent  to  the  police  ?  " 

"  No  one  to  send." 

"I'll  see  to  it,"  said  Mr.  Polly.     "Out  this  way?" 

She  nodded. 

He  went  to  the  crinkly  paned  window  and  peered  out. 
Uncle  Jim  was  coming  down  the  garden  path  towards 
the  house,  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  singing  hoarsely. 
Mr.  Polly  remembered  afterwards  with  pride  and  amaze- 
ment that  he  felt  neither  faint  nor  rigid.  He  glanced 
round  him,  seized  a  bottle  of  beer  by  the  neck  as  an 
improvised  club,  and  went  out  by  the  garden  door. 
Uncle  Jim  stopped  amazed.  His  brain  did  not  instantly 
rise  to  the  new  posture  of  things.  "  You ! "  he  cried, 
and  stopped  for  a  moment.  "  You — scoot!  " 

"  Your  job,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  advanced  some  paces. 

Uncle  Jim  stood  swaying  with  wrathful  astonishment 
and  then  darted  forward  with  clutching  hands.  Mr. 
Polly  felt  that  if  his  antagonist  closed  he  was  lost,  and 
smote  with  all  his  force  at  the  ugly  head  before  him. 


278         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

Smash  went  the  bottle,  and  Uncle  Jim  staggered,  half- 
stunned  by  the  blow  and  blinded  with  beer. 

The  lapses  and  leaps  of  the  human  mind  are  for  ever 
mysterious.  Mr.  Polly  had  never  expected  that  bottle 
to  break.  In  the  instant  he  felt  disarmed  and  helpless. 
Before  him  was  Uncle  Jim,  infuriated  and  evidently 
still  coming  on,  and  for  defence  was  nothing  but  the 
neck  of  a  bottle. 

For  a  time  our  Mr.  Polly  has  figured  heroic.  Now 
comes  the  fall  again;  he  sounded  abject  terror;  he 
dropped  that  ineffectual  scrap  of  glass  and  turned  and 
fled  round  the  corner  of  the  house. 

"  Bolls !  "  came  the  thick  voice  of  the  enemy  behind 
him  as  one  who  accepts  a  challenge,  and  bleeding,  but 
indomitable,  Uncle  Jim  entered  the  house. 

"  Bolls !  "  he  said,  surveying  the  bar.  "  Fightin'  with 
bolls !  I'll  show  'im  fightin'  with  bolls !  " 

Uncle  Jim  had  learnt  all  about  fighting  with  bottles  in 
the  Reformatory  Home.  Regardless  of  his  terror- 
stricken  aunt  he  ranged  among  the  bottled  beer  and  suc- 
ceeded after  one  or  two  failures  in  preparing  two  bottles 
to  his  satisfaction  by  knocking  off  the  bottoms,  and 
gripping  them  dagger-wise  by  the  necks.  So  prepared, 
he  went  forth  again  to  destroy  Mr.  Polly. 

Mr.  Polly,  freed  from  the  sense  of  urgent  pursuit, 
had  halted  beyond  the  raspberry  canes  and  rallied  his 
courage.  The  sense  of  Uncle  Jim  victorious  in  the 
house  restored  his  manhood.  He  went  round  by  the 
outhouses  to  the  riverside,  seeking  a  weapon,  and  found 


THE  POTWELL   INN  279 

an  old  paddle  boat  hook.  With  this  he  smote  Uncle  Jim 
as  he  emerged  by  the  door  of  the  tap.  Uncle  Jim,  blas- 
pheming dreadfully  and  with  dire  stabbing  intimations 
in  either  hand,  came  through  the  splintering  paddle  like 
a  circus  rider  through  a  paper  hoop,  and  once  more  Mr. 
Polly  dropped  his  weapon  and  fled. 

A  careless  observer  watching  him  sprint  round  and 
round  the  inn  in  front  of  the  lumbering  and  reproachful 
pursuit  of  Uncle  Jim  might  have  formed  an  altogether 
erroneous  estimate  of  the  issue  of  the  campaign.  Cer- 
tain compensating  qualities  of  the  very  greatest  military 
value  were  appearing  in  Mr.  Polly  even  as  he  ran;  if 
Uncle  Jim  had  strength  and  brute  courage  and  the  rich 
toughening  experience  a  Reformatory  Home  affords, 
Mr.  Polly  was  nevertheless  sober,  more  mobile  and  with 
a  mind  now  stimulated  to  an  almost  incredible  nimble- 
ness.  So  that  he  not  only  gained  on  Uncle  Jim,  but 
thought  what  use  he  might  make  of  this  advantage.  The 
word  "  strategious  "  flamed  red  across  the  tumult  of  his 
mind.  As  he  came  round  the  house  for  the  third  time, 
he  darted  suddenly  into  the  yard,  swung  the  door  to 
behind  himself  and  bolted  it,  seized  the  zinc  pig's  pail 
that  stood  by  the  entrance  to  the  kitchen  and  had  it  neatly 
and  resonantly  over  Uncle  Jim's  head  as  he  came  belat- 
edly in  round  the  outhouse  on  the  other  side.  One  of 
the  splintered  bottles  jabbed  Mr.  Polly's  ear — at  the 
time  it  seemed  of  no  importance — and  then  Uncle  Jim  was 
down  and  writhing  dangerously  and  noisily  upon  the  yard 
tiles,  with  his  head  still  in  the  pig  pail  and  his  bottles 


280         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY 

gone  to  splinters,  and  Mr.  Polly  was  fastening  the  kitchen 
door  against  him. 

"  Can't  go  on  like  this  for  ever,"  said  Mr.  Polly, 
whooping  for  breath,  and  selecting  a  weapon  from 
among  the  brooms  that  stood  behind  the  kitchen  door. 

Uncle  Jim  was  losing  his  head.  He  was  up  and 
kicking  the  door  and  bellowing  unamiable  proposals  and 
invitations,  so  that  a  strategist  emerging  silently  by  the 
tap  door  could  locate  him  without  difficulty,  steal  upon 
him  unawares  and ! 

But  before  that  felling  blow  could  be  delivered  Uncle 
Jim's  ear  had  caught  a  footfall,  and  he  turned.  Mr. 
Polly  quailed  and  lowered  his  broom, — a  fatal  hesita- 
tion. 

"  Now  I  got  you !  "  cried  Uncle  Jim,  dancing  forward 
in  a  disconcerting  zigzag. 

He  rushed  to  close,  and  Mr.  Polly  stopped  him  neatly, 
as  it  were  a  miracle,  with  the  head  of  the  broom  across 
his  chest.  Uncle  Jim  seized  the  broom  with  both  hands. 
"  Lea-go ! "  he  said,  and  tugged.  Mr.  Polly  shook  his 
head,  tugged,  and  showed  pale,  compressed  lips.  Both 
tugged.  Then  Uncle  Jim  tried  to  get  round  the  end  of 
the  broom;  Mr.  Polly  circled  away.  They  began  to 
circle  about  one  another,  both  tugging  hard,  both  in- 
tensely watchful  of  the  slightest  initiative  on  the  part  of 
the  other.  Mr.  Polly  wished  brooms  were  longer,  twelve 
or  thirteen  feet,  for  example ;  Uncle  Jim  was  clearly  for 
shortness  in  brooms.  He  wasted  breath  in  saying  what 
was  to  happen  shortly,  sanguinary,  oriental  soul-blench- 


THE  POTWELL   INN  281 

ing  things,  when  the  broom  no  longer  separated  them. 
Mr.  Polly  thought  he  had  never  seen  an  uglier  person. 
Suddenly  Uncle  Jim  flashed  into  violent  activity,  but 
alcohol  slows  movement,  and  Mr.  Polly  was  equal  to  him. 
Then  Uncle  Jim  tried  jerks,  and  for  a  terrible  instant 
seemed  to  have  the  broom  out  of  Mr.  Polly's  hands.  But 
Mr.  Polly  recovered  it  with  the  clutch  of  a  drowning 
man.  Then  Uncle  Jim  drove  suddenly  at  Mr.  Polly's 
midriff,  but  again  Mr.  Polly  was  ready  and  swept  him 
round  in  a  circle.  Then  suddenly  a  wild  hope  filled  Mr. 
Polly.  He  saw  the  river  was  very  near,  the  post  to 
which  the  punt  was  tied  not  three  yards  away.  With  a 
wild  yell,  he  sent  the  broom  home  into  his  antagonist's 
ribs. 

"  Woosh ! "  he  cried,  as  the  resistance  gave. 

"Oh!  Gaw!"  said  Uncle  Jim,  going  backward  help- 
lessly, and  Mr.  Polly  thrust  hard  and  abandoned  the 
broom  to  the  enemy's  despairing  clutch. 

Splash!  Uncle  Jim  was  in  the  water  and  Mr.  Polly 
Had  leapt  like  a  cat  aboard  the  ferry  punt  and  grasped 
the  pole. 

Up  came  Uncle  Jim  spluttering  and  dripping.  "  You 
(unprofitable  matter,  and  printing  it  would  lead  to  a 
censorship  of  novels) !  You  know  I  got  a  weak 
chess!" 

The  pole  took  him  in  the  throat  and  drove  him  back- 
ward and  downwards. 

"  Lea  go ! "  cried  Uncle  Jim,  staggering  and  with  real 
terror  in  his  once  awful  eyes. 


282         THE  HISTORY.   OF  MR.   POLLY 

Splash !  Down  he  fell  backwards  into  a  frothing  mass 
of  water  with  Mr.  Polly  jabbing  at  him.  Under  water 
he  turned  round  and  came  up  again  as  if  in  flight  to- 
wards the  middle  of  the  river.  Directly  his  head  reap' 
peared  Mr.  Polly  had  him  between  the  shoulders  and 
under  again,  bubbling  thickly.  A  hand  clutched  and 
disappeared. 

It  was  stupendous !  Mr.  Polly  had  discovered  the  heel 
of  Achilles.  Uncle  Jim  had  no  stomach  for  cold  water. 
The  broom  floated  away,  pitching  gently  on  the  swell. 
Mr.  Polly,  infuriated  with  victory,  thrust  Uncle  Jim 
under  again,  and  drove  the  punt  round  on  its  chain  in 
such  a  manner  that  when  Uncle  Jim  came  up  for  the 
fourth  time — and  now  he  was  nearly  out  of  his  depth,  too 
buoyed  up  to  walk  and  apparently  nearly  helpless, — 
Mr.  Polly,  fortunately  for  them  both,  could  not  reach 
him. 

Uncle  Jim  made  the  clumsy  gestures  of  those  who 
struggle  insecurely  in  the  water.  "  Keep  out,"  said  Mr. 
Polly.  Uncle  Jim  with  a  great  effort  got  a  footing, 
emerged  until  his  arm-pits  were  out  of  water,  until  his 
waistcoat  buttons  showed,  one  by  one,  till  scarcely  two 
remained,  and  made  for  the  camp  sheeting. 

"  Keep  out !  "  cried  Mr.  Polly,  and  leapt  off  the  punt 
and  followed  the  movements  of  his  victim  along  the 
shore. 

"  I  tell  you  I  got  a  weak  chess,"  said  Uncle  Jim, 
moistly.  "  This  ain't  fair  fightin'." 

"Keep  out!  "said  Mr.  Polly. 


THE   POTWELL   INN  283 

"  This  ain't  fair  fightin',"  said  Uncle  Jim,  almost 
weeping,  and  all  his  terrors  had  gone. 

"  Keep  out !  "  said  Mr.  Polly,  with  an  accurately  poised 
pole. 

"  I  tell  you  I  got  to  land,  you  Fool,'*  said  Uncle  Jim, 
with  a  sort  of  despairing  wrathfulness,  and  began  mov- 
ing down-stream. 

"  You  keep  out,"  said  Mr.  Polly  in  parallel  movement. 
"  Don't  you  ever  land  on  this  place  again !  .  .  ." 

Slowly,  argumentatively,  and  reluctantly,  Uncle  Jim 
waded  down-stream.  He  tried  threats,  he  tried  persua- 
sion, he  even  tried  a  belated  note  of  pathos;  Mr.  Polly 
remained  inexorable,  if  in  secret  a  little  perplexed  as  to 
the  outcome  of  the  situation.  "  This  cold's  getting  to 
my  marrer !  "  said  Uncle  Jim. 

"  You  want  cooling.  You  keep  out  in  it,"  said  Mr. 
Polly. 

They  came  round  the  bend  into  sight  of  Nicholson's 
ait,  where  the  backwater  runs  down  to  the  Potwell  Mill* 
And  there,  after  much  parley  and  several  feints,  Uncle 
Jim  made  a  desperate  effort  and  struggled  into  clutch  of 
the  overhanging  osiers  on  the  island,  and  so  got  out 
of  the  water  with  the  millstream  between  them.  He 
emerged  dripping  and  muddy  and  vindictive.  "  By 
Caw! "  he  said.  "  I'll  skin  you  for  this !  " 

"  You  keep  off  or  I'll  do  worse  to  you,"  said  Mr. 
Polly. 

The  spirit  was  out  of  Uncle  Jim  for  the  time,  and  he 
turned  away  to  struggle  through  the  osiers  towards  the 


284         THE  HISTORY.  'OE  MR.  POLLY 

mill,  leaving  a  shining  trail  of  water  among  the  green- 
grey  stems. 

Mr.  Polly  returned  slowly  and  thoughtfully  to  the  inn, 
and  suddenly  his  mind  began  to  bubble  with  phrases. 
The  plump  woman  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps  that  led 
up  to  the  inn  door  to  greet  him. 

"  Law ! "  she  cried  as  he  drew  near,  "  'asn't  'e  killed 
you?" 

"Do  I  look  like  it?  "  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"But  where's  Jim?" 

"  Gone  off." 

"  'E  was  mad  drunk  and  dangerous !  " 

"  I  put  him  in  the  river,"  said  Mr.  Polly.  "  That 
toned  down  his  alcolaceous  frenzy!  I  gave  him  a  bit 
of  a  doing  altogether." 

"Hain't  he  'urt  you?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!" 

"  Then  what's  all  that  blood  beside  your  ear  ?  " 

Mr.  Polly  felt.  "  Quite  a*  cut !  Funny  how  one  over- 
looks things !  Heated  moments !  He  must  have  done 
that  when  he  jabbed  about  with  those  bottles.  Hullo, 
Kiddy!  You  venturing  downstairs  again?" 

"Ain't  he  killed  you?"  asked  the  little  girl. 

"  Well !  " 

"  I  wish  I'd  seen  more  of  the  fighting." 

"Didn't  you?" 

"  All  I  saw  was  you  running  round  the  house  and 
Uncle  Jim  after  you." 


THE  POTWELL  INN  285 

There  was  a  little  pause.  "  I  was  leading  him  on," 
said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Someone's  shouting  at  the  ferry,"  she  said. 

"  Right  O.  But  you  won't  see  any  more  of  Uncle  Jim 
for  a  bit.  We've  been  having  a  conversazione  about 
that." 

"  I  believe  it  'is  Uncle  Jim,"  said  the  little  girl. 

"Then  he  can  wait,"  said  Mr.  Polly  shortly. 

He  turned  round  and  listened  for  the  words  that 
•drifted  across  from  the  little  figure  on  the  opposite  bank. 
So  far  as  he  could  judge,  Uncle  Jim  was  making  an  ap- 
pointment for  the  morrow.  He  replied  with  a  defiant 
movement  of  the  punt  .pole.  The  little  figure  was  con- 
vulsed for  a  moment  and  then  went  on  its  way  upstream 
— fiercely. 

So  it  was  the  first  campaign  ended  in  an  insecure  vic- 
tory. 

VIII 

The  next  day  was  Wednesday  and  a  slack  day  for  the 
Potwell  Inn.  It  was  a  hot,  close  day,  full  of  the  mur- 
muring of  bees.  One  or  two  people  crossed  by  the  ferry, 
an  elaborately  equipped  fisherman  stopped  for  cold  meat 
and  dry  ginger  ale  in  the  bar  parlour,  some  haymakers 
came  and  drank  beer  for  an  hour,  and  afterwards  sent 
jars  and  jugs  by  a  boy  to  be  replenished;  that  was  all. 
Mr.  Polly  had  risen  early  and  was  busy  about  the  place 
meditating  upon  the  probable  tactics  of  Uncle  Jim.  He 


286         THE   HISTORY   OF   MR.    POLLY 

was  no  longer  strung  up  to  the  desperate  pitch  of  the 
first  encounter.  But  he  was  grave  and  anxious.  Uncle 
Jim  had  shrunken,  as  all  antagonists  that  are  boldly 
faced  shrink,  after  the. first  battle,  to  the  negotiable,  the 
vulnerable.  Formidable  he  was  no  doubt,  but  not  in- 
vincible. He  had,  under  Providence,  been  defeated 
once,  and  he  might  be  defeated  altogether. 

Mr.  Polly  went  about  the  place  considering  the  mili- 
tant possibilities  of  pacific  things,  pokers,  copper  sticks, 
garden  implements,  kitchen  knives,  garden  nets,  barbed 
wire,  oars,  clothes  lines,  blankets,  pewter  pots,  stockings 
and  broken  bottles.  He  prepared  a  club  with  a  stocking 
and  a  bottle  inside  upon  the  best  East  End  model.  He 
swung  it  round  his  head  once,  broke  an  outhouse  window 
with  a  flying  fragment  of  glass,  and  ruined  the  stocking 
beyond  all  darning.  He  developed  a  subtle  scheme  with 
the  cellar  flap  as  a  sort  of  pitfall,  but  he  rejected  it 
finally  because  (A)  it  might  entrap  the  plump  woman, 
and  (B)  he  had  no  use  whatever  for  Uncle  Jim  in  the 
cellar.  He  determined  to  wire  the  garden  that  evening, 
burglar  fashion,  against  the  possibilities  of  a  night  at- 
tack. 

Towards  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  three  young 
men  arrived  in  a  capacious  boat  from  the  direction  of 
Lammam,  and  asked  permission  to  camp  in  the  paddock. 
It  was  given  all  the  more  readily  by  Mr.  Polly  because 
he  perceived  in  their  proximity  a  possible  check  upon 
the  self-expression  of  Uncle  Jim.  But  he  did  not  foresee 
and  no  one  could  have  foreseen  that  Uncle  Jim,  stealing 


THE   POTWELL   INN  287 

tmawares  upon  the  Potwell  Inn  in  the  late  afternoon, 
armed  with  a  large  rough-hewn  stake,  should  have  mis- 
taken the  bending  form  of  one  of  those  campers — who 
was  pulling  a  few  onions  by  permission  in  the  garden — • 
for  Mr.  Polly's,  and  crept  upon  it  swiftly  and  silently 
and  smitten  its  wide  invitation  unforgettably  and  unfor- 
giveably.  It  wns  an  error  impossible  to  explain;  the 
resounding  whack  went  up  to  heaven,  the  cry  of  amaze- 
ment, and  Mr.  Polly  emerged  from  the  inn  armed  with 
the  frying-pan  he  was  cleaning,  to  take  this  reckless 
assailant  in  the  rear.  Uncle  Jim,  realising  his  error, 
fled  blaspheming  into  the  arms  of  the  other  two  campers, 
who  were  returning;  from  the  village  with  butcher's 
meat  and  groceries.  They  caught  him,  they  smacked 
his  face  with  steak  and  punched  him  with  a  bursting 
parcel  of  lump  sugar,  they  held  him  though  he  bit  them, 
and  their  idea  of  punishment  was  to  duck  him.  They 
were  hilarious,  strong  young  stockbrokers'  clerks,  Terri- 
torials and  seasoned  boating  men ;  they  ducked  him  as 
though  it  was  romping,  and  all  that  Mr.  Polly  had  to 
do  was  to  pick  up  lumps  of  sugar  for  them  and  wipe 
them  on  his  sleeve  and  put  them  on  a  plate,  and  explain 
that  Uncle  Jim  was  a  notorious  bad  character  and  not 
quite  right  in  his  head. 

"  Got  a  regular  obsession  that  the  Missis  is  his  Aunt," 
said  Mr.  Polly,  expanding  it.  "  Perfect  noosance  he 
is." 

But  he  caught  a  glance  of  Uncle  Jim's  eye  as  he 
receded  before  the  campers'  urgency  that  boded  ill  for 


288         THE  HISTORY   OF.  MR.  POLLY 

him,  and  in  the  night  he  had  a  disagreeable  idea  that 
perhaps  his  luck  might  not  hold  for  the  third  occasion. 

That  came  soon  enough.  So  soon,  indeed,  as  the 
campers  had  gone. 

Thursday  was  the  early  closing  day  at  Lammam,  and 
next  to  Sunday  the  busiest  part  of  the  week  at  the  Pot- 
well  Inn.  Sometimes  as  many  as  six  boats  all  at  once 
would  be  moored  against  the  ferry  punt  and  hiring  row- 
boats.  People  could  either  have  a  complete  tea,  a  com- 
plete tea  with  jam,  cake  and  eggs,  a  kettle  of  boiling 
water  and  find  the  rest,  or  refreshments  a  la  carte,  as 
they  choose.  They  sat  about,  but  usually  the  boiling 
water-ers  had  a  delicacy  about  using  the  tables  and 
grouped  themselves  humbly  on  the  ground.  The  com- 
plete tea-ers  with  jam  and  eggs  got  the  best  tablecloth 
on  the  table  nearest  the  steps  that  led  up  to  the  glass- 
panelled  door.  The  groups  about  the  lawn  were  very 
satisfying  to  Mr.  Polly's  sense  of  amenity.  To  the  right 
were  the  complete  tea-ers  with  everything  heart  could 
desire,  then  a  small  group  of  three  young  men  in  re- 
markable green  and  violet  and  pale-blue  shirts,  and  two 
girls  in  mauve  and  yellow  blouses  with  common  teas 
and  gooseberry  jam  at  the  green  clothless  table,  then 
on  the  grass  down  by  the  pollard  willow  a  small  family 
of  hot  water-ers  with  a  hamper,  a  little  troubled  by 
wasps  in  their  jam  from  the  nest  in  the  tree  and  all  in 
mourning,  but  happy  otherwise,  and  on  the  lawn  to  the 
right  a  ginger  beer  lot  of  'prentices  without  their  collars 
and  very  jocular  and  happy.  The  young  people  in  the 


THE  POTWELL  INN  289 

rainbow  shirts  and  blouses  formed  the  centre  of  interest ; 
they  were  under  the  leadership  of  a  gold-spectacled  senior 
with  a  fluting  voice  and  an  air  of  mystery;  he  ordered 
everything,  and  showed  a  peculiar  knowledge  of  the 
qualities  of  the  Potwell  jams,  preferring  gooseberry 
with  much  insistence.  Mr.  Polly  watched  him,  chris- 
tened him  the  "  benifluoua  influence,"  glanced  at  the 
'prentices  and  went  inside  and  down  into  the  cellar  in 
order  to  replenish  the  stock  of  stone  ginger  beer  which 
the  plump  woman  had  allowed  to  run  low  during  the 
preoccupations  of  the  campaign.  It  was  in  the  cellar 
that  he  first  became  aware  of  the  return  of  Uncle  Jim. 
He  became  aware  of  him  as  a  voice,  a  voice  not  only 
hoarse,  but  thick,  as  voices  thicken  under  the  influence 
of  alcohol. 

"  Where's  that  muddy- faced  mongrel  ?  "  cried  Uncle 
Jim.  "  Let  'im  come  out  to  me !  Where's  that  blighted 
whisp  with  the  punt  pole — I  got  a  word  to  say  to  'im. 
Come  out  of  it,  you  pot-bellied  chunk  of  dirtiness,  you! 
Come  out  and  'ave  your  ugly  face  wiped.  I  got  a 
Thing  for  you.  .  .  .  'Ear  me? 

"  'E's  'iding,  that's  what  'e's  doing,"  said  the  voice  of 
Uncle  Jim,  dropping  for  a  moment  to  sorrow,  and  then 
with  a  great  increment  of  wrathfulness :  "  Come  out  of 
my  nest,  you  blinking  cuckoo,  you,  or  I'll  cut  your  silly 
insides  out!  Come  out  of  it — you  pock-marked  rat! 
Stealing  another  man's  'ome  away  from  'im !  Come  out 
and  look  me  in  the  face,  you  squinting  son  of  a 
Skunk! 


290         THE  HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

Mr.  Polly  took  the  ginger  beer  and  went  thoughtfully 
upstairs  to  the  bar. 

"  'E's  back,"  said  the  plump  woman  as  he  appeared. 
"  I  knew  Vd  come  back." 

"  I  heard  him,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  looked  about. 
"  Just  gimme  the  old  poker  handle  that's  under  the  beer 
engine." 

The  door  opened  softly  and  Mr.  Polly  turned  quickly. 
But  it  was  only  the  pointed  nose  and  intelligent  face  of 
•fhe  young  man  with  the  gplt  spectacles  and  discreet 
manner.  He  coughed  and  the  spectacles  fixed  Mr. 
Polly. 

"  I  say,"  he  said  with  quiet  earnestness.  "  There's  a 
chap  out  here  seems  to  want  someone." 

"  Why  don't  he  come  in  ?  "  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  He  seems  to  want  you  out  there." 

"What's  he  want?" 

"  I  think,"  said  the  spectacled  young  man  after  a 
thoughtful  moment,  "  he  appears  to  have  brought  you  a 
present  of  fish." 

"Isn't  he  shouting?" 

"  He  is  a  little  boisterous." 

"He'd  better  come  in." 

The  manner  of  the  spectacled  young  man  intensified. 
"  I  wish  you'd  come  out  and  persuade  him  to  go  away," 
he  said.  "  His  language — isn't  quite  the  thing — ladies." 

"  It  never  was,"  said  the  plump  woman,  her  voice 
charged  with  sorrow. 

Mr.  Polly  moved  towards  the  door  and  stood  with 


THE  POTWELL  INN  291 

his  hand  on  the  handle.  The  gold-spectacled  face  dis- 
appeared. 

"  Now,  my  man,"  came  his  voice  from  outside,  "  be 
careful  what  you're  saying " 

"  Oo  in  all  the  World  and  Hereafter  are  you  to  call 
me,  me  man?"  cried  Uncle  Jim  in  the  voice  of  one 
astonished  and  pained  beyond  endurance,  and  added 
scornfully:  "You  gold-eyed  Geezer,  you!" 

"  Tut,  tut !  "  said  the  gentleman  in  gilt  glasses.  "  Re- 
strain yourself ! " 

Mr.  Polly  emerged,  poker  in  hand,  just  in  time  to  see 
what  followed.  Uncle  Jim  in  his  shirtsleeves  and  a  state 
of  ferocious  decolletage,  was  holding  something — yes ! — 
a  dead  eel  by  means  of  a  piece  of  newspaper  about  its 
tail,  holding  it  down  and  back  and  a  little  sideways  in 
such  a  way  as  to  smite  with  it  upward  and  hard.  It 
struck  the  spectacled  gentleman  under  the  jaw  with  a 
peculiar  dead  thud,  and  a  cry  of  horror  came  from  the 
two  seated  parties  at  the  sight.  One  of  the  girls  shrieked 
piercingly,  "  Horace ! "  and  everyone  sprang  up.  The 
sense  of  helping  numbers  came  to  Mr.  Polly's  aid. 

"  Drop  it !  "  he  cried,  and  came  down  the  steps  waving 
his  poker  and  thrusting  the  spectacled  gentleman  before 
him  as  once  heroes  were  wont  to  wield  the  ox-hide 
shield. 

Uncle  Jim  gave  ground  suddenly,  and  trod  upon  the 
foot  of  a  young  man  in  a  blue  shirt,  who  immediately 
thrust  at  him  violently  with  both  hands. 

"  Lea  go !  "  howled  Uncle  Jim.     "  That's  the  chap  I'm 


292         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

looking  for ! "  and  pressing  the  head  of  the  spectacled 
gentleman  aside,  smote  hard  at  Mr.  Polly. 

But  at  the  sight  of  this  indignity  inflicted  upon  the 
spectacled  gentleman  a  woman's  heart  was  stirred,  and 
a  pink  parasol  drove  hard  and  true  at  Uncle  Jim's  wiry 
neck,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  young  man  in  the  blue 
shirt  sought  to  collar  him  and  lost  his  grip  again. 

"  Suffragettes,"  gasped  Uncle  Jim  with  the  ferule  at 
his  throat.  "  Everywhere ! "  and  aimed  a  second  more 
successful  blow  at  Mr.  Polly. 

"Wup!"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

But  now  the  jam  and  egg  party  was  joining  in  the  fray. 
A  stout  yet  still  fairly  able-bodied  gentleman  in  white 
and  black  checks  enquired :  "  What's  the  fellow  up  to  ? 
Ain't  there  no  police  here  ?  "  and  it  was  evident  that  once 
more  public  opinion  was  rallying  to  the  support  of  Mr. 
Polly. 

"  Oh,  come  on  then  all  the  LOT  of  you ! "  cried  Uncle 
Jim,  and  backing  dexterously  whirled  the  eel  round  in  a 
destructive  circle.  The  pink  sunshade  was  torn  from  the 
hand  that  gripped  it  and  whirled  athwart  the  complete, 
but  unadorned,  tea  things  on  the  green  table. 

"  Collar  him !  Someone  get  hold  of  his  collar !  "  cried 
the  gold-spectacled  gentleman,  coming  out  of  the  scrim- 
mage, retreating  up  the  steps  to  the  inn  door  as  if  to 
rally  his  forces. 

"  Stand  clear,  you  blessed  mantel  ornaments !  "  cried 
Uncle  Jim,  "  stand  clear ! "  and  retired  backing,  staving 
off  attack  by  means  of  the  whirling  eel. 


THE  POTWELL  INN.  293 

Mr.  Polly,  undeterred  by  a  sense  of  grave  damage 
done  to  his  nose,  pressed  the  attack  in  front,  the  two 
young  men  in  violet  and  blue  skirmished  on  Uncle  Jim's 
flanks,  the  man  in  white  and  black  checks  sought  still 
further  outflanking  possibilities}  and  two  of  the  appren- 
tice boys  ran  for  oars.  The  gold-spectacled  gentleman, 
as  if  inspired,  came  down  the  wooden  steps  again,  seized 
the  tablecloth  of  the  jam  and  egg  party,  lugged  it  from 
under  the  crockery  with  inadequate  precautions  against 
breakage,  and  advanced  with  compressed  lips,  curious 
lateral  crouching  movements,  swift  flashings  of  his 
glasses,  and  a  general  suggestion  of  bull-fighting  in  his 
pose  and  gestures.  Uncle  Jim  was  kept  busy,  and  unable 
to  plan  his  retreat  with  any  strategic  soundness.  He 
was  moreover  manifestly  a  little  nervous  about  the  river 
in  his  rear.  He  gave  ground  in  a  curve,  and  so  came 
right  across  the-  rapidly  abandoned  camp  of  the  family 
in  mourning,  crunching  a  teacup  under  his  heel,  over- 
setting the  teapot,  and  finally  tripping  backwards  over 
the  hamper.  The  eel  flew  out  at  a  tangent  from  his 
hand  and  became  a  mere  looping  relic  on  the  sward. 

"  Hold  him ! "  cried  the  gentleman  in  spectacles. 
"  Collar  him !  "  and  moving  forward  with  extraordinary 
promptitude  wrapped  the  best  tablecloth  about  Uncle 
Jim's  arms  and  head.  Mr.  Polly  grasped  his  purpose 
instantly,  the  man  in  checks  was  scarcely  slower,  and  in 
another  moment  Uncle  Jim  was  no  more  than  a  bundle 
of  smothered  blasphemy  and  a  pair  of  wildly  active 
legs. 


294         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

"  Duck  him ! "  panted  Mr.  Polly,  holding  on  to  the 
earthquake.  "  Bes'  thing — duck  him." 

The  bundle  was  convulsed  by  paroxysms  of  anger  and 
protest.  One  boot  got  the  hamper  and  sent  it  ten  yards. 

"  Go  in  the  house  for  a  clothes  line  someone ! "  said 
the  gentleman  in  gold  spectacles.  "  He'll  get  out  of 
this  in  a  moment." 

One  of  the  apprentices  ran. 

"  Bird  nets  in  the  garden,"  shouted  Mr.  Polly.  "  In 
the  garden !  " 

The  apprentice  was  divided  in  his  purpose. 

And  then  suddenly  Uncle  Jim  collapsed  and  became 
a  limp,  dead  seeming  thing  under  their  hands.  His  arms 
were  drawn  inward,  his  legs  bent  up  under  his  person, 
and  so  he  lay. 

"  Fainted ! "    said   the  man   in   checks,    relaxing,  his 

grip- 

"  A  fit,  perhaps,"  said  the  man  in  spectacles. 

"  Keep  hold ! "  said  Mr.  Polly,  too  late. 

For  suddenly  Uncle  Jim's  arms  and  legs  flew  out  like 
springs  released.  Mr.  Polly  was  tumbled  backwards 
and  fell  over  the  broken  teapot  and  into  the  arms  of  the 
father  in  mourning.  Something  struck  his  head — daz- 
zingly.  In  another  second  Uncle  Jim  was  on  his  feet 
and  the  tablecloth  enshrouded  the  head  of  the  man  in 
checks.  Uncle  Jim  manifestly  considered  he  had  done 
all  that  honour  required  of  him,  and  against  overwhelm- 
ing numbers  and  the  possibility  of  reiterated  duckings, 
flight  is  no  disgrace. 


THE   POTWELL   INN  295 

Uncle  Jim  fled. 

Mr.  Polly  sat  up  after  an  interval  of  an  indeterminate 
length  among  the  ruins  of  an  idyllic  afternoon.  Quite 
a  lot  of  things  seemed  scattered  and  broken,  but  it  was 
difficult  to  grasp  it  all  at  once.  He  stared  between  the 
legs  of  people.  He  became  aware  of  a  voice,  speaking 
slowly  and  complainingly. 

"  Someone  ought  to  pay  for  those  tea  things,"  said  the 
father  in  mourning.  "  We  didn't  bring  them  'ere  to  be 
danced  on,  not  by  no  manner  of  means." 

IX 

There  followed  an  anxious  peace  for  three  days,  and 
then  a  rough  man  in  a  blue  jersey,  in  the  intervals  of 
trying  to  choke  himself  with  bread  and  cheese  and  pickled 
onions,  broke  out  abruptly  into  information. 

"Jim's  lagged  again,  Missus,"  he  said. 

"  What !  "  said  the  landlady.    "  Our  Jim?  " 

"  Your  Jim,"  said  the  man,  and  after  an  absolutely 
necessary  pause  for  swallowing,  added :  "  Stealin'  a 
'atchet." 

He  did  not  speak  for  some  moments,  and  then  he  re- 
plied to  Mr.  Polly's  enquiries :  "  Yes,  a  'atchet.  Down 
Lammam  way — night  before  last." 

"What'd  'e  steal  a  'atchet  for?"  asked  the  plump 
woman. 

"'E  said  'e  wanted  a  'atchet." 

"  I  wonder  what  he  wanted  a  hatchet  for  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Polly,  thoughtfully. 


296         THE  HISTORY  'OR  MR.  POLLY 

"  I  dessay  'e  'ad  a  use  for  it,"  said  the  gentleman  in 
the  blue  jersey,  and  he  took  a  mouthful  that  amounted  to 
conversational  suicide.  There  was  a  prolonged  pause 
in  the  little  bar,  and  Mr.  Polly  did  some  rapid  thinking. 

He  went  to  the  window  and  whistled.  "  I  shall  stick 
it,"  he  whispered  at  last.  "'Atchets  or  no  'atchets." 

He  turned  to  the  man  with  the  blue  jersey  when  he 
thought  him  clear  for  speech  again.  "  How  much  did 
you  say  they'd  given  him  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Three  munce,"  said  the  man  in  the  blue  jersey,  and 
refilled  anxiously,  as  if  alarmed  at  the  momentary  clear- 
ness of  his  voice. 

X 

Those  three  months  passed  all  too  quickly;  months  of 
sunshine  and  warmth,  of  varied  novel  exertion  in  the 
open  air,  of  congenial  experiences,  of  interest  and  whole- 
some food  and  successful  digestion,  months  that  browned 
Mr.  Polly  and  hardened  him  and  saw  the  beginnings  of 
his  beard,  months  marred  only  by  one  anxiety,  an  anxiety 
Mr.  Polly  did  his  utmost  to  suppress.  The  day  of  reck- 
oning was  never  mentioned,  it  is  true,  by  either  the 
plump  woman  or  himself,  but  the  name  of  Uncle  Jim  was 
written  in  letters  of  glaring  silence  across  their  inter- 
course. As  the  term  of  that  respite  drew  to  an  end  his 
anxiety  increased,  until  at  last  it  even  trenched  upon  his 
well-earned  sleep.  He  had  some  idea  of  buying  a  re- 
volver. At  last  he  compromised  upon  a  small  and  very 


THE  POTWELL  INN  297 

foul  and  dirty  rook  rifle  which  he  purchased  in  Lammam 
under  a  pretext  of  bird  scaring,  and  loaded  carefully  and 
concealed  under  his  bed  from  the  plump  woman's  eye. 

September  passed  away,  October  came. 

And  at  last  came  that  night  in  October  whose  happen- 
ings it  is  so  difficult  for  a  sympathetic  historian  to  drag 
out  of  their  proper  nocturnal  indistinctness  into  the  clear, 
hard  light  of  positive  statement.  A  novelist  should  pre- 
sent characters,  not  vivisect  them  publicly.  .  .  . 

The  best,  the  kindliest,  if  not  the  justest  course  is  surely 
to  leave  untold  such  things  as  Mr.  Polly  would  mani- 
festly have  preferred  untold. 

Mr.  Polly  had  declared  that  when  the  cyclist  discovered 
him  he  was  seeking  a  weapon  that  should  make  a  con- 
clusive end  to  Uncle  Jim.  That  declaration  is  placed 
before  the  reader  without  comment. 

The  gun  was  certainly  in  possession  of  Uncle  Jim  at 
that  time  and  no  human  being  but  Mr.  Polly  knows  how 
he  got  hold  of  it. 

The  cyclist  was  a  literary  man  named  Warspite,  who 
suffered  from  insomnia;  he  had  risen  and  come  out  of 
his  house  near  Lammam  just  before  the  dawn,  and  he 
discovered  Mr.  Polly  partially  concealed  in  the  ditch  by 
the  Pot  well  churchyard  wall.  It  is  an  ordinary  dry 
ditch,  full  of  nettles  and  overgrown  with  elder  and  dog- 
rose,  and  in  no  way  suggestive  of  an  arsenal.  It  is  the 
last  place  in  which  you  would  look  for  a  gun.  And 
he  says  that  when  he  dismounted  to  see  why  Mr.  Polly 
allowing  only  the  latter  part  of  his  person  to  show 


298         THE   HISTORY   OF   MR.   POLLY 

(and  that  it  would  seem  by  inadvertency),  Mr.  Polly 
merely  raised  his  head  and  advised  him  to  "  Look  out !  " 
and  added :  "  He's  let  fly  at  me  twice  already."  He 
came  out  under  persuasion  and  with  gestures  of  extreme 
caution.  He  was  wearing  a  white  cotton  nightgown  of 
the  type  that  has  now  been  so  extensively  superseded  by 
pyjama  sleeping  suits,  and  his  legs  and  feet  were  bare 
and  much  scratched  and  torn  and  very  muddy. 

Mr.  Warspite  takes  that  exceptionally  lively  interest 
in  his  fellow-creatures  which  constitutes  so  much  of  the 
distinctive  and  complex  charm  of  your  novelist  all  the 
world  over,  and  he  at  once  involved  himself  generously 
in  the  case.  The  two  men  returned  at  Mr.  Polly's  initia- 
tive across  the  churchyard  to  the  Potwell  Inn,  and  came 
upon  the  burst  and  damaged  rook  rifle  near  the  new 
monument  to  Sir  Samuel  Harpon  at  the  corner  by  the 
yew. 

"  That  must  have  been  his  third  go,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 
"It  sounded  a  bit  funny." 

The  sight  inspirited  him  greatly,  and  he  explained 
further  that  he  had  fled  to  the  churchyard  on  account  of 
the  cover  afforded  by  tombstones  from  the  flight  of  small 
shot.  He  expressed  anxiety  for  the  fate  of  the  landlady 
of  the  Potwell  Inn  and  her  grandchild,  and  led  the  way 
with  enhanced  alacrity  along  the  lane  to  that  establish- 
ment. 

They  found  the  doors  of  the  house  standing  open, 
the  bar  in  some  disorder — several  bottles  of  whisky  were 
afterwards  found  to  be  missing — and  Blake,  the  village 


THE  POTWELL   INN  299 

policeman,  rapping  patiently  at  the  open  door.  He  en- 
tered with  thehi.  The  glass  in  the  bar  had  suffered 
severely,  and  one  of  the  mirrors  was  starred  from  a 
blow  from  a  pewter  pot.  The  till  had  been  forced  and 
ransacked,  and  so  had  the  bureau  in  the  minute  room  be- 
hind the  bar.  An  upper  window  was  opened  and  the 
voice  of  the  landlady  became  audible  making  enquiries. 
They  went  out  and  parleyed  with  her.  She  had  locked 
herself  upstairs  with  the  little  girl,  she  said,  and  refused 
to  descend  until  she  was  assured  that  neither  Uncle  Jim 
nor  Mr.  Polly's  gun  were  anywhere  on  the  premises. 
Mr.  Blake  and  Mr.  Warspite  proceeded  to  satisfy  them- 
selves with  regard  to  the  former  condition,  and  Mr. 
Polly  went  to  his  room  in  search  of  garments  more 
suited  to  the  brightening  dawn.  He  returned  immedi- 
ately with  a  request  that  Mr.  Blake  and  Mr.  Warspite 
would  "  just  come  and  look."  They  found  the  apartment 
in  a  state  of  extraordinary  confusion,  the  bedclothes  in 
a  ball  in  the  corner,  the  drawers  all  open  and  ransacked, 
the  chair  broken,  the  lock  of  the  door  forced  and  broken, 
one  door  panel  slightly  scorched  and  perforated  by  shot, 
and  the  window  wide  open.  None  of  Mr.  Polly's  clothes 
were  to  be  seen,  but  some  garments  which  had  apparently 
once  formed  part  of  a  stoker's  workaday  outfit,  two 
brownish  yellow  halves  of  a  shirt,  and  an  unsound  pair 
of  boots  were  scattered  on  the  floor.  A  faint  smell  of 
gunpowder  still  hung  in  the  air,  and  two  or  three  books 
Mr.  Polly  had  recently  acquired  had  been  shied  with 
some  violence  under  the  bed.  Mr.  Warspite  looked  at 


300         THE   HISTORY   OF   MR.   POLLY 

Mr.  Blake,  and  then  both  men  looked  at  Mr.  Polly. 
"  That's  his  boots,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

Blake  turned  his  eye  to  the  window.  "  Some  of  these 
tiles  'ave  just  got  broken,"  he  observed. 

"  I  got  out  of  trie  window  and  slid  down  the  scullery 
tiles,"  Mr.  Polly  answered,  omitting  much,  they  both 
felt,  from  his  explanation.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  we  better  find  'im  and  'ave  a  word  with  ?im," 
said  Blake.  "  That's  about  my  business  now." 

But  Uncle  Jim   had  gone   altogether.     .    .    . 


XII 

He  did  not  return  for  some  days.  That  perhaps  was 
not  very  wonderful.  But  the  days  lengthened  to  weeks 
and  the  weeks  to  months  and  still  Uncle  Jim  did  not 
recur.  A  year  passed,  and  the  anxiety  of  him  became 
less  acute ;  a  second  healing  year  followed  the  first.  One 
afternoon  about  thirty  months  after  the  Night  Surprise 
the  plump  woman  spoke  of  him. 

"  I  wonder  what's  become  of  Jim/'  she  said. 

"I  wonder  sometimes,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 


CHAPTER   THE   TENTH 

MIRIAM    REVISITED 

ONE  summer  afternoon  about  five  years  after 
his  first  coming  to  the  Potwell  Inn  Mr.  Polly 
,    forr/d  himself  sitting  under  the  pollard  willow 
'fishing  for  ,dace.     It  was  a  plumper,  browner  and  health- 
ier Mr.   Polly  altogether  than  the  miserable  bankrupt 
with  whose  dyspeptic  portrait  our  novel  opened.     He  was 
fat,  but  with  a  fatness  more  generally  diffused,  and  the 
lower  part  of  his  face  was  touched  to  gravity  by  a  small 
square  beard.    Also  he  was  balder. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  found  leisure  to  fish, 
though  from  the  very  outset  of  his  Potwell  career  he  had 
promised  himself  abundant  indulgence  in  the  pleasures  of 
fishing.  Fishing,  as  the  golden  page  of  English  litera- 
ture testifies,  is  a  meditative  and  retrospective  pursuit, 
and  the  varied  page  of  memory,  disregarded  so  long  for 
sake  of  the  teeming  duties  I  have  already  enumerated, 
began  to  unfold  itself  to  Mr.  Polly's  consideration.  A 
speculation,  about  Uncle  Jim  died  for  want  of  material, 
and  gave  place  to  a  reckoning  of  the  years  and  months 
that  had  passed  since  his  coming  to  Potwell,  and  that  to 
a  philosophical  review  of  his  life.  He  began  to  think 

303 


304         THE   HISTORY   OF   MR.   POLLY 

about  Miriam,  remotely  and  impersonally.  He  remem- 
bered many  things  that  had  been  neglected  by  his  con- 
science during  the  busier  times,  as,  for  example,  that 
he  had  committed  arson  and  deserted  a  wife.  For  the 
first  time  he  looked  these  long  neglected  facts  in  the  face. 

It  is  disagreeable  to  think  one  has  committed  Arson, 
because  it  is  an  action  that  leads  to  jail.  Otherwise  I  do 
not  think  there  was  a  grain  of  regret  for  that  in  Mr. 
Polly's  composition.  But  deserting  Miriam  was  in  a 
different  category.  Deserting  Miriam  was  mean. 

This  is  a  history  and  not  a  glorification  of  Mr.  Polly, 
and  I  tell  of  things  as  they  were  with  him.  Apart  from 
the  disagreeable  twinge  arising  from  the  thought  of 
what  might  happen  if  he  was  found  out,  he  had  not  the 
slightest  remorse  about  that  fire.  Arson,  after  all,  is  an 
artificial  crime.  Some  crimes  are  crimes  in  themselves, 
would  be  crimes  without  any  law,  the  cruelties,  mockery, 
the  breaches  of  faith  that  astonish  and  wound,  but  the 
burning  of  things  is  in  itself  neither  good  nor  bad.  A 
large  number  of  houses  deserve  to  be  burnt,  most  mod- 
ern furniture,  an  overwhelming  majority  of  pictures  and 
books — one  might  go  on  for  some  time  with  the  list.  If 
our  community  was  collectively  anything  more  than  a 
feeble  idiot,  it  would  burn  most  of  London  and  Chicago, 
for  example,  and  build  sane  and  beautiful  cities  in  the 
place  of  these  pestilential  heaps  of  rotten  private  prop- 
erty. I  have  failed  in  presenting  Mr.  Polly  altogether  if 
I  have  not  made  you  see  that  he  was  in  many  respects 
an  artless  child  of  Nature,  far  more  untrained,  undis- 


MIRIAM   REVISITED  305 

ciplined  and  spontaneous  than  an  ordinary  savage.  And 
he  was  really  glad,  for  all  that  little  drawback  of  fear, 
that  he  had  the  courage  to  set  fire  to  his  house  and  fly 
and  come  to  the  Potwell  Inn. 

But  he  was  not  glad  he  had  left  Miriam.  He  had  seen 
Miriam  cry  once  or  twice  in  his  life,  and  it  had  always 
reduced  him  to  abject  commiseration.  He  now  imagined 
her  crying.  He  perceived  in  a  perplexed  way  that  he 
had  made  himself  responsible  for  her  life.  He  forgot 
how  she  had  spoilt  his  own.  He  had  hitherto  rested  in 
the  faith  that  she  had  over  a  hundred  pounds  of  insur- 
ance money,  but  now,  with  his  eye  meditatively  upon  his 
float,  he  realised  a  hundred  pounds  does  not  last  for 
ever.  His  conviction  of  her  incompetence  was  unflinch- 
ing; she  was  bound  to  have  fooled  it  away  somehow  by 
this  time.  And  then! 

He  saw  her  humping  her  shoulders  and  sniffing  in  a 
manner  he  had  always  regarded  as  detestable  at  close 
quarters,  but  which  now  became  harrowingly  pitiful. 

"  Damn !  "  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  down  went  his  float  and 
he  flicked  up  a  victim  to  destruction  and  took  it  off  the 
hook. 

He  compared  his  own  comfort  and  health  with 
Miriam's  imagined  distress. 

"  Ought  to  have  done  something  for  herself,"  said  Mr. 
Polly,  rebaiting  his  hook.  "  She  was  always  talking  of 
doing  things.  Why  couldn't  she  ?  " 

He  watched  the  float  oscillating  gently  towards  quies- 
cence. 


306         THE   HISTORY   OF   MR.   POLLY 

"  Silly  to  begin  thinking  about  her/'  he  said.  "  Damn 
silly!" 

But  once  he  had  begun  thinking  about  her  he  had  to 
go  on. 

"  Oh  blow !  "  cried  Mr.  Polly  presently,  and  pulled  up 
his  hook  to  find  another  fish  had  just  snatched  at  it  in 
the  last  instant.  His  handling  must  have  made  the  poor 
thing  feel  itself  unwelcome. 

He  gathered  his  things  together  and  turned  towards 
the  house. 

All  the  Potwell  Inn  betrayed  his  influence  now,  for 
here  indeed  he  had  found  his  place  in  the  world.  It 
looked  brighter,  so  bright  indeed  as  to  be  almost  skittish, 
with  the  white  and  green  paint  he  had  lavished  upon  it. 
Even  the  garden  palings  were  striped  white  and  green, 
and  so  were  the  boats,  for  Mr.  Polly  was  one  of  those 
who  find  a  positive  sensuous  pleasure  in  the  laying  on  of 
paint.  Left  and  right  were  two  large  boards  which  had 
done  much  to  enhance  the  inn's  popularity  with  the 
lighter-minded  variety  of  pleasure-seekers.  Both  marked 
innovations.  One  bore  in  large  letters  the  single  word 
"  Museum,"  the  other  was  as  plain  and  laconic  with 
"  Omlets ! "  The  spelling  of  the  latter  word  was  Mr. 
Polly's  own,  but  when  he  had  seen  a  whole  boatload  of 
men,  intent  on  Lammam  for  lunch,  stop  open-mouthed, 
and  stare  and  grin  and  come  in  and  asked  in  a  marked 
sarcastic  manner  for  "  omlets,"  he  perceived  that  his  in- 
accuracy had  done  more  for  the  place  than  his  utmost 
cunning  could  have  contrived.  In  a  year  or  so  the  inn 


MIRIAM   REVISITED  307 

was  known  both  up  and  down  the  river  by  its  new  name 
of  "  Omlets,"  and  Mr.  Polly,  after  some  secret  irrita- 
tion, smiled  and  was  content.  And  the  fat  woman's 
omelettes  were  things  to  remember. 

(You  will  note  I  have  changed  her  epithet.  Time 
works  upon  us  all.) 

She  stood  upon  the  steps  as  he  came  towards  the 
house,  and  smiled  at  hirn  richly. 

"  Caught  many  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Got  an  idea,"  said  Mr.  Polly.  "  Would  it  put  you 
out  very  much  if  I  wrent  off  for  a  day  or  two  for  a  bit 
of  a  holiday?  There  won't  be  much  doing  now  until 
Thursday." 

II 

Feeling  recklessly  secure  behind  his  beard  Mr.  Polly 
surveyed  the  Fishbourne  High  Street  once  again.  The 
north  side  was  much  as  he  had  known  it  except  that 
Rusper  had  vanished.  A  row  of  new  shops  replaced  the 
destruction  of  the  great  fire.  Mantell  and  Throbson's 
had  risen  again  upon  a  more  flamboyant  pattern,  and  the 
neu  fire  station  was  in  the  Swiss-Teutonic  style  and  with 
much  red  paint.  Next  door  in  the  place  of  Rumbold's  was 
a  branch  of  the  Colonial  Tea  Company,  and  then  a 
Salmon  and  Gluckstein  Tobacco  Shop,  and  then  a  little 
shop  that  displayed  sweets  and  professed  a  "  Tea  Room 
Upstairs."  He  considered  this  as  a  possible  place  in 
which  to  prosecute  enquiries  about  his  lost  wife,  wavering 
a  little  between  it  and  the  God's  Providence  Inn  down 


308         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

the  street.  Then  his  eye  caught  a  name  over  the  window, 
"  Polly,"  he  read,  "  &  Larkins !  Well,  I'm— astonished !  " 

A  momentary  faintness  came  upon  him.  He  walked 
past  and  down  the  street,  returned  and  surveyed  the  shop 
again. 

He  saw  a  middle-aged,  rather  untidy  woman  standing 
behind  the  counter,  whom  for  an  instant  he  thought  might 
be  Miriam  terribly  changed,  and  then  recognised  as  his 
sister-in-law  Annie,  filled  out  and  no  longer  hilarious. 
She  stared  at  him  without  a  sign  of  recognition  as  he 
entered  the  shop. 

"  Can  I  have  tea?  "  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  Well,"  said  Annie,  "  you  can.  But  our  Tea  Room's 
upstairs.  .  .  .  My  sister's  been  cleaning  it  out — and 
it's  a  bit  upset." 

"  It  would  be,"  said  Mr.  Polly  softly. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  "  said  Annie. 

"  I  said  /  didn't  mind.    Up  here?  " 

"  I  daresay  there'll  be  a  table,"  said  Annie,  and  fol- 
lowed him  up  to  a  room  whose  conscientious  disorder  was 
intensely  reminiscent  of  Miriam. 

"  Nothing  like  turning  everything  upside  down  when 
you're  cleaning,"  said  Mr.  Polly  cheerfully. 

"  It's  my  sister's  way,"  said  Annie  impartially.  "  She's 
gone  out  for  a  bit  of  air,  but  I  daresay  she'll  be  back  soon 
to  finish.  It's  a  nice  light  room  when  it's  tidy.  Can  I  put 
you  a  table  over  there  ?  " 

"  Let  me,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  assisted. 

He  sat  down  by  the  open  window  and  drummed  on 


MIRIAM   REVISITED  309 

the  table  and  meditated  on  his  next  step  while  Annie 
vanished  to  get  his  tea.  After  all,  things  didn't  seem  so 
bad  with  Miriam.  He  tried  over  several  gambits  in 
imagination. 

"  Unusual  name,"  he  said  as  Annie  laid  a  cloth  before 
him. 

Annie  looked  interrogation. 

"  Polly.     Polly  &  Larkins.     Real,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Polly's  my  sister's  name.  She  married  a  Mr. 
Polly." 

"  Widow  I  presume  ?  "  said  Mr.  Polly. 

'"'  Yes.    This  five  years — come  October." 

"  Lord !  "  said  Mr.  Polly  in  unfeigned  surprise. 

"  Found  drowned  he  was.  There  was  a  lot  of  talk  in 
the  place." 

"  Never  heard  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Polly.  "  I'm  a  stranger 
—rather." 

"  In  the  Medway  near  Maidstone.  He  must  have  been 
in  the  water  for  days.  Wouldn't  have  known  him,  my 
sister  wouldn't,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  name  sewn  in  his 
clothes.  All  whitey  and  eat  away  he  was." 

"  Bless  my  heart !  Must  have  been  rather  a  shock  for 
her!" 

"  It  was  a  shock,"  said  Annie,  and  added  darkly :  "  But 
sometimes  a  shock's  better  than  a  long  agony." 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

He  gazed  with  a  rapt  expression  at  the  preparations 
before  him.  "  So  I'm  drowned,"  something  was  saying 
inside  him.  "  Life  insured  ?  "  he  asked. 


310         THE   HISTORY   OF  MR.   POLLY 

"  We  started  the  tea  rooms  with  it,"  said  Annie. 

Why,  if  things  were  like  this,  had  remorse  and  anxiety 
for  Miriam  been  implanted  in  his  soul?  No  shadow  of 
an  answer  appeared. 

"  Marriage  is  a  lottery,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  She  found  it  so,"  said  Annie.  "  Would  you  like  some 
jam?" 

"  I'd  like  an  egg,"  said  Mr.  Polly.  "  I'll  have  two. 
I've  got  a  sort  of  feeling .  As  though  I  wanted  keep- 
ing up.  .  .  .  Wasn't  particularly  good  sort,  this  Mr. 
Polly?" 

"  He  was  a  wearing  husband,"  said  Annie.  "  I've  often 
pitied  my  sister  He  was  one  of  that  sort " 

"Dissolute?"  suggested  Mr.  Polly  faintly. 

"No,"  said  Annie  judiciously;  "not  exactly  dissolute. 
Feeble's  more  the  word.  Weak,  'E  was.  Weak  as 
water.  'Ow  long  do  you  like  your  eggs  boiled  ?  " 

"  Four  minutes  exactly,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  One  gets  talking,"  said  Annie. 

"  One  does,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  she  left  him  to  his 
thoughts. 

What  perplexed  him  was  his  recent  remorse  and  ten- 
derness for  Miriam.  Now  he  was  back  in  her  atmosphere 
all  that  had  vanished,  and  the  old  feeling  of  helpless  an- 
tagonism returned.  He  surveyed  the  piled  furniture,  the 
economically  managed  carpet,  the  unpleasing  pictures  on 
the  wall.  Why  had  he  felt  remorse?  Why  had  he  en- 
tertained this  illusion  of  a  helpless  woman  crying  aloud 
in  the  pitiless  darkness  for  him?  He  peered  into  the 


MIRIAM  REVISITED  311 

unfathomable  mysteries  of  the  heart,  and  ducked  back 
to  a  smaller  issue.  Was  he  feeble  ? 

The  eggs  came  up.  Nothing  in  Annie's  manner  invited 
a  resumption  of  the  discussion. 

"  Business  brisk?  "  he  ventured  to  ask. 

Annie  reflected.  "  It  is,"  she  said,  "  and  it  isn't.  It's 
like  that." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  squared  himself  to  his  egg. 
"  Was  there  an  inquest  on  that  chap  ?  " 

"What  chap?" 

"  What  was  his  name  ?— Polly !  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  You're  sure  it  was  him  ?  " 

"  What  you  mean  ?  " 

Annie  looked  at  him  hard,  and  suddenly  his  soul  was 
black  with  terror. 

"  Who  else  could  it  have  been — in  the  very  does  'e 
wore  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  began  his  egg.  He 
was  so  agitated  that  he  only  realised  its  condition  when 
he  was  half  way  through  it  and  Annie  safely  downstairs. 

"  Lord ! "  he  said,  reaching  out  hastily  for  the  pepper. 
"  One  of  Miriam's !  Management !  I  haven't  tasted 
such  an  egg  for  five  years.  .  .  .  Wonder  where  she 
gets  them  !  Picks  them  out,  I  suppose !  " 

He  abandoned  it  for  its  fellow. 

Except  for  a  slight  mustiness  the  second  egg  was  very 
palatable  indeed.  He  was  getting  on  to  the  bottom  of  it 
as  Miriam  came  in.  He  looked  up.  "  Nice  afternoon," 


312         THE   HISTORY   OF.   MR.   POLLY 

he  said  at  her  stare,  and  perceived  she  knew  him  at  once 
by  the  gesture  and  the  voice.  She  went  white  and  shut 
the  door  behind  her.  She  looked  as  though  she  was 
going  to  faint.  Mr.  Polly  sprang  up  quickly  and  handed 
her  a  chair.  "  My  God !  "  she  whispered,  and  crumpled 
up  rather  than  sat  down. 

"  It's  you,"  she  said. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Polly  very  earnestly.  "  It  isn't.  It 
just  looks  like  me.  That's  all." 

"  I  knew  that  man  wasn't  you — all  along.  I  tried  to 
think  it  was.  I  tried  to  think  perhaps  the  water  had 
altered  your  wrists  and  feet  and  the  colour  of  your  hair." 

"  Ah ! " 

"  I'd_  always  feared  you'd  come  back." 

Mr.  Polly  sat  down  by  his  egg.  "  I  haven't  come 
back,"  he  said  very  earnestly.  "  Don't  you  think  it." 

"  'Ow  we'll  pay  back  the  insurance  now  I  don't  know." 
She  was  weeping.  She  produced  a  handkerchief  and 
covered  her  face. 

"  Look  here,  Miriam,"  said  Mr.  Polly.  "  I  haven't 
come  back  and  I'm  not  coming  back.  I'm — I'm  a  Visi- 
tant from  Another  World.  You  shut  up  about  me  and 
I'll  shut  up  about  myself.  I  came  back  because  I  thought 
you  might  be  hard  up  or  in  trouble  or  some  silly  thing 
like  that.  Now  I  see  you  again — I'm  satisfied.  Fin 
satisfied  completely.  See?  I'm  going  to  absquatulate, 
see  ?  Hey  Presto  right  away." 

He  turned  to  his  tea  for  a  moment,  finished  his  cup 
noisily,  stood  up. 


MIRIAM  REVISITED  313 

"Don't  you  think  you're  going  to  see  me  again,"  he 
said,  "  for  you  ain't." 

He  moved  to  the  door. 

"  That  was  a  tasty  egg,"  he  said,  hovered  for  a  second 
and  vanished. 

Annie  was  in  the  shop. 

"  The  missus  has  had  a  bit  of  a  shock,"  he  remarked. 
"  Got  some  sort  of  fancy  about  a  ghost.  Can't  make  it 
out  quite.  So  Long !  " 

And  he  had  gone. 

Ill 

Mr.  Polly  sat  beside  the  fat  woman  at  one  of  the  little 
green  tables  at  the  back  of  the  Potwell  Inn,  and  struggled 
with  the  mystery  of  life.  It  was  one  of  those  evenings, 
serenely  luminous,  amply  and  atmospherically  still,  when 
the  river  bend  was  at  its  best.  A  swan  floated  against 
the  dark  green  masses  of  the  further  bank,  the  stream 
flowed  broad  and  shining  to  its  destiny,  with  scarce  a  rip- 
ple— except  where  the  reeds  came  out  from  the  headland 
— the  three  poplars  rose  clear  and  harmonious  against  a 
sky  of  green  and  yellow.  And  it  was  as  if  it  was  all 
securely  within  a  great  warm  friendly  globe  of  crystal 
sky.  It  was  as  safe  and  enclosed  and  fearless  as  a  child 
that  has  still  to  be  born.  It  was  an  evening  full  of  the 
quality  of  tranquil,  unqualified  assurance.  Mr.  Polly's 
mind  was  filled  with  the  persuasion  that  indeed  all  things 
whatsoever  must  needs  be  satisfying  and  complete.  It 
was  incredible  that  life  has  ever  done  more  than  seemed 


3H         THE   HISTORY   OF   MR.   POLLY 

to  jar,  that  there  could  be  any  shadow  in  life  save  such 
velvet  softnesses  as  made  the  setting  for  that  silent  swan, 
or  any  murmur  but  the  ripple  of  the  water  as  it  swirled 
round  the  chained  and  gently  swaying  punt.  And  the 
mind  of  Mr.  Polly,  exalted  and  made  tender  by  this  at- 
mosphere, sought  gently,  but  sought,  to  draw  together 
the  varied  memories  that  came  drifting,  half  submerged, 
across  the  circle  of  his  mind. 

He  spoke  in  words  that  seemed  like  a  bent  and  broken 
stick  thrust  suddenly  into  water,  destroying  the  mirror 
of  the  shapes  they  sought.  "  Jim's  not  coming  back 
again  ever,"  he  said.  "  He  got  drowned  five  years 
ago." 

"  Where?  "  asked  the  fat  woman,  surprised. 

"  Miles  from  here.    In  the  Medway.    Away  in  Kent." 

"  Lor !  "  said  the  fat  woman. 

"  It's  right  enough,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  How  d'you  know  ?  " 

"  I  went  to  my  home." 

"Where?" 

"  Don't  matter.  I  went  and  found  out.  He'd  been  in 
the  water  some  days.  He'd  got  my  clothes  and  they'd 
said  it  was  me." 

"They?" 

"  It  don't  matter.    I'm  not  going  back  to  them." 

The  fat  woman  regarded  him  silently  for  some  time. 
Her  expression  of  scrutiny  gave  way  to  a  quiet  satis- 
faction. Then  her  brown  eyes  went  to  the  river. 

"  Poor  Jim,"  she  said.    "  'E  'adn't  much  Tact— ever." 


MIRIAM   REVISITED  315 

She  added  mildly :  "  I  can't  'ardly  say  I'm  sorry." 

"  Xor  me,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  and  got  a  step  nearer  the 
thought  in  him.  "  But  it  don't  seem  much  good  his 
having  been  alive,  does  it  ?  " 

"  'E  wasn't  much  good,"  the  fat  woman  admitted. 
"  Ever." 

"  I  suppose  there  were  things  that  were  good  to  him," 
Mr.  Polly  speculated.  "  They  weren't  our  things." 

His  hold  slipped  again.  "  I  often  wonder,  about  life," 
he  said  weakly. 

He  tried  again.  "  One  seems  to  start  in  life,"  he  said, 
"  expecting  something.  And  it  doesn't  happen.  And  it 
doesn't  matter.  One  starts  with  ideas  that  things  are 
good  and  things  are  bad — and  it  hasn't  much  relation  to 
what  is  good  and  what  is  bad.  I've  always  been  the  skep- 
taceous  sort,  and  it's  always  seemed  rot  to  me  to  pretend 
we  know  good  from  evil  It's  just  what  I've  never  done. 
No  Adam's  apple  stuck  in  my  throat,  ma'am.  I  don't  own 
to  it." 

He  reflected. 

"  I  set  fire  to  a  house — once." 

The  fat  woman  started. 

"  I  don't  feel  sorry  for  it.  I  don't  believe  it  was  a  bad 
thing  to  do — any  more  than  burning  a  toy  like  I  did  once 
when  I  was  a  baby.  I  nearly  killed  myself  with  a  razor. 
Who  hasn't? — anyhow  gone  as  far  as  thinking  of  it? 
Most  of  my  time  I've  been  half  dreaming.  I  married 
like  a  dream  almost.  I've  never  really  planned  my  life 
or  set  out  to  live.  I  happened;  things  happened  to  me. 


316         THE  HISTORY   OF,  MR.  POLLY. 

It's  so  with  everyone.  Jim  couldn't  help  himself.  I  shot 
at  him  and  tried  to  kill  him.  I  dropped  the  gun  and  he 
got  it.  He  very  nearly  had  me.  I  wasn't  a  second  too 
soon — ducking.  .  .  .  Awkward — that  night  was. 
.  .  .  M'mm.  .  .  .  But  I  don't  blame  him — come 
to  that.  Only  I  don't  see  what  it's  all  up  to.  ... 

"  Like  children  playing  about  in  a  nursery.  Hurt 
themselves  at  times.  .  .  . 

"  There's  something  that  doesn't  mind  us,"  he  resumed 
presently.  "  It  isn't  what  we  try  to  get  that  we  get,  it 
isn't  the  good  we  think  we  do  is  good.  What  makes  us 
happy  isn't  our  trying,  what  makes  others  happy  isn't 
our  trying.  There's  a  sort  of  character  people  like  and 
stand  up  for  and  a  sort  they  won't.  You  got  to  work  it 
out  and  take  the  consequences.  .  .  .  Miriam  was  al- 
ways trying." 

"  Who  was  Miriam?  "  asked  the  fat  woman. 

"  No  one  you  know.  But  she  used  to  go  about  with  her 
brows  knit  trying  not  to  do  whatever  she  wanted  to  do — 
if  ever  she  did  want  to  do  anything " 

He  lost  himself. 

"  You  can't  help  being  fat,"  said  the  fat  woman  after  a 
pause,  trying  to  get  up  to  his  thoughts. 

"  You  can't,"  said  Mr.  Polly. 

"  It  helps  and  it  hinders." 

"  Like  my  upside  down  way  of  talking." 

"  The  magistrates  wouldn't  'ave  kept  on  the  license  to 
me  if  I  'adn't  been  fat.  .  .  ." 

"  Then  what  have  we  done,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  "  to  get 


MIRIAM   REVISITED  317 

an  evening1  like  this  ?  Lord !  look  at  it !  "  He  sent  his 
arm  round  the  great  curve  of  the  sky. 

"  If  I  was  a  nigger  or  an  Italian  I  should  come  out 
here  and  sing.  I  whistle  sometimes,  but  bless  you,  it's 
singing  I've  got  in  my  mind.  Sometimes  I  think  I  live 
for  sunsets." 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  does  you  any  good  always  looking 
at  sunsets  like  you  do,"  said  the  fat  woman. 

"  Nor  me.  But  I  do.  Sunsets  and  things  I  was  made 
to  like." 

4  They  don't  'elp  you,"  said  the  fat  woman  thought- 
fully. 

"  Who  cares?  "  said  Mr.  Polly. 

A  deeper  strain  had  come  to  the  fat  woman.  "  You 
got  to  die  some  day,"  she  said. 

"  Some  things  I  can't  believe,"  said  Mr.  Polly  suddenly, 
"  and  one  is  your  being  a  skeleton.  .  .  ."  He  pointed 
his  hand  towards  the  neighbour's  hedge.  "  Look  at  'em 
— against  the  yellow — and  they're  just  stingin'  nettles. 
Nasty  weeds — if  you  count  things  by  their  uses.  And  no 
help  in  the  life  hereafter.  But  just  look  at  the  look  of 
them ! " 

"  It  isn't  only  looks,"  said  the  fat  woman. 

"  Whenever  there's  signs  of  a  good  sunset  and  I'm  not 
too  busy,"  said  Mr.  Polly,  "  I'll  come  and  sit  out  here." 

The  fat  woman  looked  at  him  with  eyes  in  whichi 
contentment  struggled  with  some  obscure  reluctant  pro- 
test, and  at  last  turned  them  slowly  to  the  black  nettle 
pagodas  against  the  golden  sky. 


318         THE   HISTORY    OF   MR.   POLLY. 

"  I  wish  we  could,"  she  said. 

"  I  will." 

The  fat  woman's  voice  sank  nearly  to  the  inaudible. 

"  Not  always,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Polly  was  some  time  before  he  replied.  "  Come 
here  always  when  I'm  a  ghost,"  he  replied. 

"  Spoil  the  place  for  others,"  said  the  fat  woman, 
abandoning  her  moral  solicitudes  for  a  more  congenial 
point  of  view. 

"  Not  my  sort  of  ghost  wouldn't,"  said  Mr.  Polly, 
emerging  from  another  long  pause.  "  I'd  be  a  sort  of 
diaphalous  feeling  —  just  mellowish  and  warmish 
like.  .  .  ." 

They  said  no  more,  but  sat  on  in  the  warm  twilight 
until  at  last  they  could  scarcely  distinguish  each  other's 
faces.  They  were  not  so  much  thinking  as  lost  in  a 
smooth,  still  quiet  of  the  mind.  A  bat  flitted  by. 

"  Time  we  was  going  in,  O'  Party,"  said  Mr.  Polly, 
standing  up.  "  Supper  to  get.  It's  as  you  say,  we  can't 
sit  here  for  ever." 


THE   END 


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